The Sacred Heart of Amestris
by Militsa M
Summary: Amestris, 1506. Roy Mustang leads a band of outlaws, including new recruits the Elric Brothers, to free the realm from ignorance and the tyranny of the Inquisition, at a time when practicing alchemy is a sin punishable by death. AU, violence
1. Chapter 1

THE SACRED HEART OF AMESTRIS

The circle of white stones was irregular, almost an oval, but it was what lay within it that caught the eye. Charred bones spread across its diameter, piles of ash, remnants of rough clothing, and the remains of the pyres upon which the victims had been burned by the Grand Inquisitor, enemy of Alchemy, Witchcraft and other heresies. The crudely painted marker claimed that fifty-four heretics had been "Dispatched to Hell" here, on the now-quiet hillside overlooking the village of Rizenbul.

***

Part I

Amestris, Winter, 1506

Damn it! In the nearly two years they had been here, been now, he had accomplished almost nothing. Waking up to the day was always a mixed blessing. That hopeful feeling that naturally came with rising to consciousness, then that oppressive frustration. _We're still here. I haven't fixed anything. Yet._

Edward turned thirteen on a day when a thick blanket of snow covered the RizenValley. Waking that morning, he felt the cold air snap around him, even inside the frigid stone walls of the monastery. He shifted himself on a pallet on a low wooden frame, that was rough-spun material stuffed with straw that left marks on his skin. The sun was already up, it was unreasonably late for the monastery, they had obviously let him sleep in as a treat. His foot touched the stone floor and he shivered, it very possibly had a layer of ice over it. He reached for his crutch and moved to the high, narrow window, leaned his elbow on the cold stone sill, and looked out. Snow on the Rizen Valley. He had always thought it was so beautiful, when he was little. Now, although it made him smile a little in spite of himself, it just meant another few weeks that he and Al were trapped at St. Amery's. They couldn't leave when it was so cold.

He had known since the day they had arrived here that they would have to go. There was nothing here for them but comfort and protection, and they had spent enough time hiding from the world. Edward had to fix the damage done by his crime, the damage done to his brother, and the self-made disaster that had brought them through the Gate into this younger version of their own world. How exactly he was going to do that, he still had little idea, even after two years of planning that led in circles and to more questions. The only power he possessed was Alchemy, and that he could not even practice within the walls of the monastery, so his protection was also a prison.

It was beautiful, this pre-industrial world, with its white snows and ever-visible rainbows and the dazzling night sky. But it was also dreadful, seething with ignorance and man-made horrors. Ed had to pretend to his brother that he wasn't terrified of going out into it, but he figured that two years of postponing their departure from St. Amery's might have tipped him off. He was afraid of what was out there, in that strange, savage world, afraid of failing to right his wrongs, afraid of being left alone and helpless, if something happened to Al…but he had to appear stronger, and braver, than he felt. For Al, he had to. His brother had been patient long enough.

He shivered by the window and drew himself away, back to his bed, and sat down, letting his crutch clatter to the floor. Everyone had left him alone as a gift, but now he felt slightly abandoned. Ever since he had lost his arm and leg, it was difficult, and sometimes impossible, to do everything by himself. It would take him a while to wash and dress and take himself down to the kitchens, so he figured he might as well get started.

It was so tedious to have to do everything one-handed, sitting down, with his clumsy left hand. How he hated having to be slow and methodical, when he was naturally wired to be quick and impulsive, when he knew how his body wanted to move, purposefully and swiftly, it was how he always saw himself in his mind. Instead here he was, with all his little adaptive methods and tricks, and his forced, forced patience. He grit his teeth all the time as he redid things again and again to get them right, to stop himself from screaming in frustration. Even putting on his clothes took thought and planning, straightening and adjusting. He couldn't fasten buttons or tie strings or even carry something without some tremendous application of effort.

_Think of Al,_ he told himself at least ten times a day. _Think of how he is now, because of you. Being like this is nothing compared to what he has to live with. _

He would never admit this to anyone else, but sometimes he wasn't so sure about that.

**

_Thirteenth birthdays meant you were grown up here._ Alphonse clattered around the monastery's kitchen, making Edward's special birthday breakfast. Brother Matthew was helping, but since he liked to talk so much, what he was really doing was reminiscing about his own thirteenth birthday—

"...which meant I was about to leave home to become a novice at St. Amery's!" he said. His walk down memory lane was elaborate, with descriptions of brothers and sisters, cousins, a great extended family that made Alphonse feel lonely. If they'd had all that, he knew, they wouldn't have been driven to try what they had, and been left alone to do it. And he and Edward wouldn't be like they were, and they most certainly would not be here. Or _now_. He was always forgetting that now part. Because really they were close to where they had always been, where they had been born and grown up. It was so strange that the place could seem like a foreign land, even though the view from the Rizen Valley was exactly the same.

The rest of the brothers had eaten their plain breakfast hours ago, and everyone was out working. Brother Matthew had given Alphonse permission to use extra eggs and flour and molasses and together they approximated pancakes, of which Al was very proud. He was certain his brother would be pleased, and then he might see him smile, with his eyes and everything. Al arranged the pancakes and molasses on the wooden plate with several strips of bacon, he was very impressed with how appetizing it seemed, and feeling that familiar pang, I wish I could eat, I miss that. The food around here wasn't very appetizing, usually, but this really looked good.

"That will appeal to him so much," said Matthew, "that I think you are in danger of his demanding seconds."

"I wouldn't mind," said Alphonse, taking up the plate, ready to bring it up to their cell. "I think my brother looks a bit thin lately, don't you? I'm worried about him..." And then he wanted to pour out his concerns to Brother Matthew, because they were so rarely alone together, and Brother Matthew knew them so well, and as he took care of Edward, he was sure to notice everything. Al could not, however, express his deepest fears without revealing the central thing, the real reason they were here, and as always he stopped short of addressing it. Edward's eyes weren't so bright, sometimes, as he thought they should be, something like strain or despair _(__please don't let it be that)_ showing on his face. In some ways, he had changed so much, and not entirely for the better. Matthew nodded and gave that thoughtful look that let him know that he knew there was more than he was saying, as always. Still, Alphonse could only say, "I'm afraid he isn't getting any stronger."

_And then we'll never be able to leave here and we'll never find out how to get me back to my body, and we'll never be able to go home and see the people we love again. I hate it here, everything is terrible. I have to live in this awful, empty armor, my brother is crippled, and the world outside is full of horrors. _

But as sure as he was about all those dreadful things, he was practiced at pretending to be patient and brave, and at insisting that he had faith in his brother, if only to himself, and, mostly, he did. _Don't think that way, it's not allowed._

"Never mind, I know I shouldn't be worried." He sighed, taking up the plate again.

Brother Matthew said nothing, only placed his hand on Al's metal arm as if it were real, warm, flesh, which Al appreciated. Nobody else ever did that, not even his brother.

**

The going was slow, as Edward had to be mindful on every step not to slip and fall. The steps were ancient, narrow and steep, and curved in many places. The stone was smooth and shiny, absolutely treacherous. Nobody liked for him to come down by himself and he was constantly reprimanded for it, but he had to draw the line somewhere—he wasn't an invalid, and he wasn't a prisoner of his room, he was a free person. If someone came down behind him they would invariably feel compelled to subject him to the indignity of being thrown over their shoulder and carried down the rest of the way, but this morning no one descended behind him, and he made it to the bottom without any mishaps.

He knew Al would be in the kitchens, so he crossed the open courtyard, after pulling his hooded cloak around himself, and, careful of the small patches of ice and snow over the paving stones, he followed the smell of cooking bacon, his mouth watering.

"Brother, you came down all by yourself!" exclaimed Al as Ed entered the kitchen. Smiling, he noticed, looking quite happy, actually. Bacon could do that.

"Huzzah for me," said Edward, his gaze locking on the plate that Al still held in his hands.

"I was just going to bring it up to you."

"I got bored waiting up there." Ed sat down on the bench at the long table, as close to the fire as he could get.

"Good morning, Edward," said Brother Matthew from his position bent down before the large fire in the hearth, poking it to keep it burning strong.

"Happy birthday!" Al put the plate down.

"Thanks, Al."

Ed began to eat with his hand and Alphonse watched him, gratified at his appetite and how much he was obviously relishing the food. Stray thoughts of jealousy filtered through his consciousness. He was rarely jealous of his brother, but watching him eat sometimes did the trick, making him feel what he was missing, making him feel hungry to be hungry. Sometimes it made him feel downright irritable and he would want to be alone for a while, to go off and hit something so he could appreciate what he had instead--strength. It hadn't always been something that he cared to prize, but he had to make the best of what he had. His brother could eat and taste things, sure, but his body, which Al could still sometimes not bear to look at without feeling sad, was not something to envy. Still, there were the familiar stirrings, when Edward licked his lips and then started sucking molasses off his fingers. _It might be worth it._

"I don't suppose there's any more?" asked Ed, looking up at Al with those big appealing eyes.

"Don't move, I'll make some more. Pancakes, that is, I used up all the bacon we're allowed. Extra molasses, though, since it's your birthday!" said Al in the cheeriest voice he could manage.

Brother Matthew placed two wooden cups of steaming hot tea on the table and sat beside Edward while Al began making more pancakes.

"I find it interesting that birthdays are celebrated as such important events between the two of you."

Ed shrugged. "That's how we always did it."

"A strange custom," said Matthew. "I wonder, wherever did your family pick that up?"

"It wasn't just our family, it was everybody."

"In Rizenbul, really?" asked Matthew, raising an eyebrow. "Just a few miles from here and they have such strange customs. That's so interesting."

Ed turned his head to look at him. Matthew was always trying to catch them out like this. It was usually a battle of wills. Ed knew that some of the other monks were still unsure about them, thinking them strange and suspicious, but Matthew had always been good to them. They had never hidden from him that they were planning to leave some day. Ed had only to get up the nerve and declare the time to be right. He knew that the realm was seething with unrest and there was constant friction between the church, which was closely allied with the current King of Amestris, and the neighboring countries. The church's persecution of everyone different worried him. They were anything but inconspicuous. And Edward knew, now that he was thirteen, as he had been told a dozen times before, he had to become a novice soon or leave the monastery. There was no question that he would be leaving, and of course, his brother with him. He knew, at least, that they would leave in better circumstances than they had arrived.

Part of him could not wait for them to begin to really fix their mistake, and part of him was afraid.

***

His brother's birthday meant that they would soon be leaving St. Amery's, and Al was of two minds about it himself. He would miss the place. His brother found it boring and stifling, but Al had to admit to liking the gentle pace of life, the gardening and the submission to the seasons that marked the pattern of life here. Being away from the world like this it was easier, sometimes, to forget that it was all wrong, and that they didn't belong here. If they couldn't fix their mistakes, then living here was their best option.

Brother Matthew liked to tell them that they had made quite a spectacular entrance at St. Amery's. When they had first arrived their conditions—Edward, severely injured, Alphonse, disoriented—prevented anyone from finding out their circumstances or how they had come to be in their present states. For the first several days, the matter at hand had been keeping them alive; for while Edward hovered between this world and the next, nearly succumbing to blood loss and fever, Alphonse's mind seemed unhinged and sometimes barely anchored inside that absurd armor that his soul wore, so that many times Matthew and the other brothers had to rap on the metal and startle him, to make sure that he was still with them.

He had sat and watched Brother Matthew and Brother Sebastian try to save his brother's life. At the time, Brother Matthew had cheerfully informed him that he would have prayed for the Creator to take his soul to Heaven, if it had not been that he would leave a grieving brother behind. Matthew had said he did not fancy his chances in this world, should he survive. But he and Brother Sebastian had worked hard with their herbs and cures and prayers to save him, and for Alphonse, they did.

Al supposed he should be forever grateful to Matthew and Sebastian, but sometimes he wasn't so sure. Sometimes he thought that it might have been better if his soul had been allowed to lose its anchor—Edward—and free itself. He wondered if his consciousness would persist if the soul was detached from the armor. He wondered if there really was a Heaven and a Hell, as the brothers of St. Amery's insisted. He wondered if maybe there was a God who had seen what he and Ed had done, and wondered if this god felt pity for them, or whether their sins had damned them to Hell. Ed was having none of that; not even the gentlest mysticism convinced him that there was anything other than alchemy.

He wouldn't say exactly why, but, he said, he'd seen the Gate, and it wasn't Heaven. He was sure of that.

When they had first arrived at St. Amery's, Al's vague and stunned recollection was that everyone had wanted to see them. The monastery housed fifty or sixty souls at any given time, and its location several miles from the nearest villages meant that the arrival of anyone new was something special. The summer night that a boy wearing a suit of battle armor carrying another bleeding and torn to pieces was the most excitement St. Amery's had seen in years.

Brother Matthew had taken charge of them. It wasn't clear to Al why it had fallen to him, but he was the only man among them who hadn't just kept standing in the great stone hallway gaping at the sight, and the sound of a young boy's voice coming from the armor, _Please, help him._ Al could only remember how his voice cracked and shook, how his consciousness floated inside that metal shell, a puzzle, he could think of nothing but his brother's bleeding body in his arms. Also, that it was a dream, a nightmare, he was sure of it, but he went with it because that was what one did when having a dream, you just went with it and see where it took you, even if it was to a terrible place. He couldn't _not_ go on with this charade, even if it wasn't real.

While they had tended to Edward, other curious men kept wandering into the room asking _What happened, what happened?__Who are you? Where are you from? What happened? Were you attacked? Who was it? Was it the wolves? The highwaymen? The outlaws in the woods? _

Al found that he could not answer. He still did not quite understand where they were, and when they were, but it was beginning to dawn on him, slowly, as that black night unrolled into day, when sunlight revealed their sin, and proved to him that this was no dream. _The Gate._ But to the ones who questioned him he could only say, _I don't know, I don't know._ Brother Matthew had to shoo the gawkers away.

But Brother Sebastian, the herbalist and resident surgeon, needed to know.

"You have to tell me how this happened. I have to know whether these wounds are clean," he said to Al.

But he couldn't give much, only what it was not: He said no when they asked. Not an animal, not a highwayman, mercenary, desperate knight or some other criminal with a knife or sword. What else could sever limbs like this, quite clearly torn off, and cleanly too, from what he could see?

"This is very odd," Sebastian had said to Matthew as they sat grimly by their patient. They both stared at Ed as Matthew rinsed the blood from the ends of his hair with a cloth.

Dread was not the word for what Al felt. He could not feel dread, not as he had known it. He had no skin to crawl, no stomach to feel squeezed, no hair to stand on end, no heart to beat too hard. He felt despair and dread in an abstract way, in a way that suggested, if he were lost, he would sit down and stop moving and there would be end but no end, ever, to the emptiness and misery of his lonely soul.

"Will my brother die?"

"Not if we can help it, and we will do our best," Brother Sebastian had said. "But if God wants to take him, we cannot help that."

Al couldn't quite understand how he could sound so cheerful as he said that, so certain that whatever happened, it would be right.

It had only ever been Brother Matthew, really, who had completely trusted them. Everyone else had at some time or other feared or mistrusted them. As he cleaned up after Ed's thirteenth birthday breakfast, Al remembered how Matthew had tried to keep the curious away as best he could those first few weeks, and to protect them from prying eyes and interrogations. Al told them their names and that they were orphans from Rizenbul. As they had tended to Ed and prayed over him they seemed to have forgotten about Al as he sat and sat on the floor of the little cell, near the pallet where his brother lay. He almost forgot to show signs of life unless someone spoke to him—because otherwise how did he know that he was alive at all? But then, maybe on the second or third morning, Brother Sebastian noticed that he hadn't been eating the food they had set out for him, and began to insist that he take off "that ridiculous armor", but Matthew had argued with him and insisted that they leave the boy be, that he had obviously suffered a shock of some kind, and probably felt safer wearing it, and Al had thanked him for that. But after Sebastian had left the room, Matthew had come before him and without warning pulled up the helmet.

Al would never forget how terrified he looked, and how his hands shook as he replaced the helmet, and how he had run off as if Al were some kind of monster, and not returned for hours, even to tend to Edward.

When Matthew did return, he got on his knees and prayed to He who made Heaven as well as Hell, and asked to know what evil had touched those children.

"My God," he said. "Why did they do this?"

"Why are you crying?" Alphonse asked.

"I know what happened to you!" said Brother Matthew. "You don't have to hide it from me, I know."

"You do? But how did you---"

"How did they get to you? Who are they? Did you know them? Are they from your village?"

"What? Who?" Al asked haltingly.

"The witches, I know they did this to you and your brother. Did they seal your tongues with a curse?"

"Witches?" He almost could not check the measure of levity that crept into his voice. "You aren't serious? Witches?"

"Of course I am serious." Brother Matthew seemed a little offended at his tone of voice.

"But there's no such thing as witches."

"Alchemists, then, are you saying they aren't real?"

Al paused, and if he had had a heart, it would have stopped.

"Oh. Those witches," he said quietly. Then he would say nothing more.

So it was how Alphonse learned that the witch fever was on, even amongst the mostly gentle and lettered men of the monastery. Once the others heard that the boys had been the victims of witchcraft…some of them stayed away and would forever give them sideways glances, as if fearful to look at their faces. But most of them forgave them as victims. Still, wickedness had touched them, tainted them, and they would never be forgiven that.

And then, after all, they were partly to blame. In no time at all the monks would be openly wondering how such heathens, who knew not one prayer between them, could have come out of Rizenbul.

***

The fear had worn away with time, and the brothers of St. Amery's had accepted the victims of witchcraft. Al had always thought it was a convenient story, but he also felt guilty in perpetrating this lie. The monks were good to them, but Al knew that the truth could cost them their lives.

"Heathens," Matthew called them, affectionately, before he instructed them. They learned the bare minimum of liturgical and ritual requirement; their true interests lay in the forbidden section of the library, the ancient alchemy texts. Al would sneak them away, one at a time, in the dark of night, and the two of them would pore over them, hoarding the precious information that would further the only education they needed.

"Now where did you learn to read?" Brother Sebastian had said. "Your parents must have been gentle folk and yet Edward at least is as wild as a child raised by wolves." This became a common joke, that they were raised by wolves, and this plausibly explained their lack of religious training but not their ability to read. Still, Brother Matthew once took Al aside and said, "Your brother is badly crippled, he will never be able to do very much, so it is a lucky thing he was educated, and you as well. Perhaps, you should both stay here and become novices, if we could only persuade you to have faith."

No, no and no, from Edward. Al almost wanted there to be a God, and that the God would be stronger than the Gate, and could get his soul and his body together again, if only they could pray hard enough.

But they both knew that that was a fairy tale.

Matthew would often sit with them and tell them about his life; he had been born and raised in Central Palatinate, in the very shadow of the greatest Church in all the known world, the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart of Amestris.

"You would not believe its size, it is so vast," said Matthew, and his eyes sparkled. "The windows are enormous, as large as suns, with glass all the colors of the rainbow. At noon the sun's light pours through the great rose windows onto the floor of the Cathedral, casting a pattern like a great wheel, with all colors, the most beautiful thing. It is like seeing into the Eye of God, glorious."

"I hope we'll see it some day," Al had said.

"Maybe you will," Matthew had said. "But it is very far away," he added gently. And there were no trains or even paved roads in the land, it would take weeks to ride there. It was like hearing about the geography of another planet.

Alphonse had a secret that he kept and nurtured over time, to become a lump in his proverbial throat, a thorn in his proverbial side, a thing that he did not like to think about. Everyone fussed over Ed, and feared himself, and how much more suited to their personalities would a reversal have been? Why did he have to suffer, for suffer he did, even though Ed was the one who had the body that felt hunger, pain, fatigue, he was the one who suffered more, who hungered, not for food but for sustenance; it was himself who was tired, not for lack of sleep, but for lack of dreams.

Ed was certainly not one to complain but Matthew was full of what he seemed to think were inspirational tales.

"You know," Matthew told them, rapturously entering into his favorite subject, "St. Amery himself was martyred right here on this spot, they say. Soldiers cut off both his hands and put out his eyes, and he lived forty days like that, wandering and fasting and being tended by the Blessed Mother who caused wellsprings to appear at his feet for every mile he walked, before being captured and having his heart cut out and buried where the sanctuary now stands. So, try thinking of poor old St. Amery sometime, and see that you don't have it so hard."

"St. Amery sounds like a sap," said Edward. Brother Matthew had seemed slightly offended at that, so Al had nodded reverently. That tale wasn't entirely inspiring, however. It didn't exactly have a happy ending.

Two months after they had arrived at St. Amery's, Ed and Al had been put to work by the brothers. The devil finds work for idle hands, they said. They knew what work they wanted to do, they wanted to raid the locked library for forbidden texts, they wanted to make and practice arrays and sharpen up their alchemy, rusty with misuse. But no, Brother Matthew had decided that they would apprentice Brother Sebastian. Perhaps study to become apothecaries? It was a useful trade, and gentle gardening was good therapy for Edward, and so they then spent much of their day sitting in the herb garden, digging and watering and watching things grow, and learning the properties and uses of plants.

"We can't let them see us doing this," Al said nervously, looking behind and around them, squatting amongst the small bushes and plants of Brother Sebastian's herb garden. His brother sat beside him on the ground, drawing an array with a stick.

"Of course we can't, they'll burn us at the stake, the idiots. But we have to practice…" Edward bit down on his lower lip as he completed the array, leaning forward with concentration. "Now give me something, a big stick or something…okay now snap it…put it here. All right. That looks good, right?"

Ed paused and looked at the array with the broken stick in the center. "Here goes," he said, before touching his hand to it. There was the familiar blue glow, the satisfying snap as the stick's two parts came together. Supporting himself once again on his hand, he looked up at his brother, his face flushed pink, and smiled.

"Now your turn," Ed said. But before Al could finish the array he was tracing in the soil, voices could be heard approaching the garden. They were so transported by the alchemy that they nearly didn't stop themselves in time. It was all they could manage to hastily rub the array away before Brother Sebastian and Brother Ossan were standing over them.

"Boys, Ossan does not believe that we've been able to bring out that coriander so quickly. Show him, Alphonse." Al obligingly directed him to the small patch of coriander. Meanwhile Brother Sebastian bent down to have a look at Edward.

"I see, very nice. I'll be expecting that in the kitchen before the month is out."

"We planted it for you." Sebastian put the back of his hand against Ed's face. "Edward, you are awfully flushed, let's get you inside. Too much sun is as bad as too little, don't you think, Brother Ossan?"

"Oh, yes, Brother Sebastian, I'd say so. Alphonse, why don't you stay down here with me and help me pull up some of that coriander?"

In Sebastian's arms, Ed looked back over his shoulder to give his brother a meaningful look. This couldn't go on much longer, their alchemy was getting rusty and the worst thing they could imagine was that it would fade altogether.

It was a safe distance from the monastery, or so they hoped. No one would see them down here, but still, they went as deep into the edge of the forest as they dared, hoping to hide any alchemic flashes from anyone looking out from the monastery. It had been difficult to explain these excursions at first; they were expected to contribute to the daily work of the monastery, which made an income on copperwork, spices, herbs and its small goat dairy. Aside from that, their interest in wandering about the countryside was not understood. There was plenty of fresh air closer to the monastery. Edward couldn't walk, and the suit of armor certainly didn't crave to feel the grass between his toes. They insisted that they enjoyed being in the fields so much that they missed it, and Edward had exploited himself—he reasoned that he had better learn to work with what he had—and insisted that it would just make him feel so much better, to go for a wander like he used to, even if it was in his brother's arms, and how much stronger he would get if he practiced walking distances with his crutch…and so on, with his eyes wide and appealing, because who in the end could say no to that? Matthew relented and the boys went on their rambles—right into the forest, and tore into their alchemy.

Whenever they could get away, when it wasn't too cold or raining or there was an excuse that kept them at St. Amery's for the day, Ed and Al drew arrays and transmuted soil, rocks, trees, diverted streams and constructed tiny bridges, fancied up beaver dams and created shelters from debris on the forest floor. Over just weeks they had reached their previous level of skill and tried hard to surpass it. They knew they needed some instruction, some books, desperately in order to get to the next level. But they practiced and sharpened their skills. Edward struggled to draw arrays with his left hand—the improvement was slow but it came and he worked hard to control his frustration. If they didn't improve, he couldn't ever make things right, and access the Gate. The thought of it right now made him shudder—losing the two limbs he had left to the Gate, if it left him here, would mean the end of his life. But he had to know how to at least get Al's body back, and get Al through the Gate back to their time, and for himself…it seemed a lot to ask, but he wanted it all the same.

In fact, Ed was very pleased with the advancement of his arrays. They were increasingly intricate, more so than he thought he was capable of. At first he was almost afraid to activate them, not being entirely sure if he wasn't out of his mind for thinking they would work. But they did, mostly, and it was a thrill to pull a staff from a rock, and he used it to help himself stand up. It was cool, and it was useful.

Al was very impressed the first time he did that. The next time he alchemized all the crystallized elements in a large rock, and pulled out the most beautiful amethyst spear, this time with an obsidian point. They both drew their breath as Ed held it in his hand, marveling at it. Had he made this? Neither of them had even thought of making a weapon before, but somehow Ed knew that they were going to need them, in this life.

It was a shame to have to leave it behind, but before they headed back to the monastery, Ed regretfully returned the spear to the rock from whence it came.

Their nights were by candlelight, the ancient texts, still new now, some of them, handwritten, texts that would be hundreds of years old in their own time, barely decades old now, some of them. Some, older, already ancient, smelling of decay and dust, filled with secret code. It took them days to decode each one, before they could even start on the actual text. They devoured the books hungrily, searching for what they needed, a way to restore Al's body, Ed's body, and return through the Gate. To do all those things, they needed to find a way to cheat the Gate, to give it without giving.

Valerius, Piers of Collins, Elias of Creta…some of them mentioned the Philosopher's Stone, but none told how to make one. Many referenced the work of Caelius Magnus, but they could not find a book by him in the monastery's small collection. After they had finished each book, Al would regularly exchange one forbidden alchemy text for another, searching for the one that would reveal to them the formula that would make right their world. The Caelius Magnus remained illusive, and Ed knew now that at least they had something they needed to look for when they left St. Amery's.

***

"Goddamn fuck this thing, it sucks! I hate it!" He kicked at the clumsily made wooden leg Brother Matthew had given him on the occasion of his thirteenth birthday, and it made an emphatic clack and clatter against the stone wall before it fell to the floor.

"That thing is useless," Edward said, looking at it with disgust as he sat on his bed. "I'm not wearing it to go into town."

"Ssh, just be quiet, you don't want them to hear you swearing like that," said Alphonse. "Nobody said you have to wear it."

"But…Brother Matthew…." He'd spent a lot of time making it, Ed knew, although he wasn't skilled in that way, and it was absolutely a failure, painful and impossible to walk on.

"I know. He understands, though. He doesn't want you to be in pain."

"It's just so ridiculous….I can't stand it! Two miles away is the best automail mechanic money can buy..."

"Two miles and four hundred years," Al clarified.

"Yeah, that."

Ed glared at the wall and then at the floor.

"If I could just transmute it..."

"We can't risk it, he'll notice…I feel so bad about lying to him," Al said. "Not so much the others, I don't know, except Sebastian maybe...Maybe we should tell them, before we go. Maybe it'll help them see that all this fighting and killing should stop—"

"_They_ might get it, but you've seen how ignorant everyone here is. They might just turn us in."

The brothers considered this quietly. They had discussed this many times before. Somehow they couldn't bring themselves to right their lie, for two years allowing everyone at St. Amery's to believe that witches had attacked them, and pretending to not be able to remember what happened. It inspired awe and fear and pity, and made most of the monks and novices even more afraid of witches and alchemists than they had been before.

They hated that their lie fed the fire that was burning this world to the ground.

The first time they had been brought to market day in ancient Rizenbul, the Elric brothers had been awed by the sight of their home town, with the small row of shops, the one café, the post office, the newly-paved main street lined with telephone poles, the train depot…at the exact same site, with the identical view of the Eastern Mountains from the RizenValley, was a muddy village square ringed with wattle-and-daub longhouses, huts with roofs of straw, and thronged with loose livestock—pigs, chickens, geese and goats. The town was dominated by a tiny church only one storey high, an edifice which in their own time was marked only by a small stone slab on the place where it had stood, and which had become the telegraph office. Now on market day the square was teeming with people from surrounding villages, settlements and farms. Ed and Al enjoyed these visits very much, hungering for contact with the world outside the cloistered monastery. Each time they made this trip, they promised themselves that they would soon leave St. Amery's. But there were limitations: they had no money, no means of making any, and no one to borrow it from. They were strangers in a strange land, and on top of that, they were strange. It would always be so, but sooner or later, they knew they would have to hit the road.

Today the throngs were thicker than usual. As they drew closer to the square, Ed sitting in front of Brother Sebastian on his horse, Brother Matthew and Al walking beside them, they noticed that there were soldiers in the square. They could see and hear more horses than usual, and the occasional snap of a whip and shouts that suggested violence, crowd control, and trouble.

Brother Matthew's hand grabbed the horse's mane. He was a tall man and craned his neck to see into the crowd gathered around the square.

"Maybe we should turn back, this worries me. What do you see, Sebastian?"

Even sitting on a horse, Edward was not tall enough to see, but Sebastian had a better view.

"It's the Crusaders, the army of the Church, and someone…"

--his breath hitched—

"The Inquisitor," he finished. Ed felt him tense against his back and the arm he had wrapped around Ed tightened. Ed turned his face to look up at him.

"I want to see him," he said. "Since we've heard so much about him."

But Matthew's voice was stern when he said, "No, this isn't good. I don't want you boys to see what they're going to do."

"Why not?" asked Al. "This is your church. Don't you support their inquisition?"

Matthew looked away. "Don't ask me that."

"Take me down," said Edward. "Even if you can't look, I can."

The crowd ringing the square was a dozen people deep all around. Ed and Al started toward it, looking for a way in.

The crowd suddenly gave out a collective gasp and then muttered, something was about to happen.

"What can you see?" Ed asked as they paused. All Ed could see was people's backs, but at his height Al had the panorama.

"They're bringing a bunch of people into the square, their hands are tied, and they're roped together."

Ed looked up at his brother. They both knew what was about to happen. They both knew they didn't want to see it, but they also both knew they couldn't walk away. This was part of their world, their history, and if they were going to understand where they were, _when_ they were, they were going to have to watch.

"They're lining them up…This is going to be bad," said Al. "We should do something."

"If we try to stop them, they'll get us too. But let's have a look at that idiot Inquisitor. Maybe we can get to him later."

As Al ploughed through the crowd, making way for Ed, people grumbled and protested at being jostled aside. "Sorry, sorry, excuse me," he kept saying as he made his way to the front. Ed came along behind, barely noticed in his brother's wake.

"You big bully, you're big enough, you don't need to stand in front!" a woman complained sharply at him. "Now I can't see!"

"Who do you think you are?" someone else chimed in. "Pushing people around…"

Al cleared his throat apologetically and gently pushed Ed in front of him.

"Sorry, he needed to be in front, so he could see…"

"Oh! Look at this poor child," the first woman said, her voice changing completely. She patted Edward on the head. "Of course he can stand in front."

A man beside them said, "Of course. Why didn't you say, big fellow?"

The woman went on, "How nice of you to help him, the poor little thing. What pretty hair he has!" She decided to take the liberty of touching it again.

Ed gritted his teeth flinched away and seethed for a moment, but at least he had a good view. He wasn't sure he would ever get used to it: in public now everyone was so deferential to Al, and so patronizing toward him, he could hardly stand it. Why that woman thought she could pet his hair and talk about him like he wasn't even there…but he had long ago learned that people tended to assume that because he was missing part of his body, he might be missing part of his brain, too.

He tried to discern what was going on in the muddy square. There were about twenty people, whether men or women it wasn't easy to tell, they were all stripped bare but for rough-spun knee-length shifts that left their arms and legs bare, bare feet, bare heads…and some of them had had their hair roughly cut or shorn. They were of all ages, a couple perhaps as young as himself, and one quite small child who looked to be only eight or nine, and a few old and gray. All of them looked stunned and terrified, and he could not say he blamed them one bit. They stood tied together, all twenty of them, by a long rope looped loosely around each neck, and their hands tied behind their backs. The persecutors had obviously beaten them and thrown them about, as they were all covered in welts and bruises. The color of their skin, ashen grey, and their sunken eyes, suggested that they had been kept locked away someplace dark, possibly for a very long time. All in all, thought Edward, they looked like they might be happy to be dead quite soon, for they all looked thoroughly miserable.

Some in the crowd seemed to be enjoying the sight of these unfortunate people, and the prisoners flinched and tried to hide their faces as the occasional tossed stone or rotten potato came their way. Others looked on with obvious trepidation. Ed felt his own heart hammering hard, and his hand shook as he gripped his crutch. Something really, really bad was about to happen.

He looked up at his brother. He couldn't read his expression of course, but when he looked down his eyes flashed.

Suddenly Ed felt a tap on his shoulder and the woman next to him, the one who had felt so free as to touch his hair, was holding out her hand to him. A copper coin was glinting in her palm.

"Here, my little pet," she said. "A cen for you."

That was too much. Edward recoiled from her and opened his mouth wide to shout.

"I'm not your little pet and I'm not a beggar, you stupid cow!"

"Mind yourself, you wretched boy!" the woman scolded. "I was offering you charity, don't be ungrateful, before God!"

"I didn't ask you for any money!" Ed shouted back. "Why don't you mind your own goddamn business?"

"Brother…" Al admonished him.

"You leave him alone!" someone said behind them, then another voice said, "Be quiet, the Inquisitor is coming!"

But the woman wasn't done with Ed. She pointed her finger at him.

"Did you hear him? What a foul mouth he has. And right before the Inquisitor comes to punish the wicked. You should have more respect!"

"Scr----" Ed felt Al's huge gauntleted hand clamp across his mouth.

"Please excuse him," Al said, his voice all apology and sweet good will. "He's not right in the head."

The woman's face lapsed into pity again but Al held his hand over Ed's mouth and whispered down to him, "Please, brother, stop before you get us into trouble. Take the stupid coin and say you're sorry."

Ed took a deep breath and pushed Al's hand away.

"Okay, fine." He turned to the woman.

"Sorry," he said. She held out the coin again, and he took it.

Suddenly murmurs swept through the crowd. Soldiers of the Church—the Crusaders—draped in crimson with white crosses on their shirts and shield, cut a path through the crowd across the square, and lined it with their bodies, pushing back the crowd, as an obviously important man came down the newly formed aisle. He wasn't particularly tall, and he wasn't particularly fierce looking—perhaps fifty years of age, still-dark hair, neatly cropped beard, slightly soft around the middle, although his body was mostly hidden under a vast red mantle. He wore a large gold cross that dangled over his stomach by a long, thick chain, so big that it looked as if it could be used as a weapon. His head was bare except for a small silk cap. The only other adornment on him was a huge gold ring on his left hand. He didn't have the bearing of one who relied on trappings to make himself seem powerful, Ed noticed. He walked as if he knew no fear, and as if he owned the world, and it was his to dispense with as he pleased.

People crossed themselves as he passed them, moving feverishly behind the Church's soldiers as they blocked him from their reaching hands. Still, as he walked he squeezed hands here and there, closing fingers around fingers, sometimes bending to kiss them, and people could then be seen flushing in ecstasy, pressing the hands the Inquisitor had kissed to their lips.

"Twenty-one heretics!" the Inquisitor shouted, extending his hand and gesturing to the trembling captives. "Three times seven of the most wicked people in your province! We've caught these, and we'll catch the others, because we know there are others. You all know there are others. Some are your neighbors, your associates, perhaps even those you believe to be your friends. But people hide their evil deeds and practices from the eyes of the righteous, we know that. It is our job, all of us, you and I and these Crusaders here, to root out all evil, to find the dissemblers amongst us. Here they are."

The Inquisitor stepped forward and approached the prisoners. Most of them quivered at his approach, but a few were defiant, it could be seen in their stance.

"I've spoken to every one of them, good people. To each and every one I have offered the chance to admit their sin and repent, so that when they die they will go to Heaven and not have to spend eternity in Hell. Some of them confessed their sin, some did not. Some renounced their wicked blasphemies. Some did not."

He stepped forward again and stood before two people, a man and a woman, of indeterminate age, who in looks seemed to have nothing in common but their large, wide-open eyes.

"These two are followers of the Cult of Leto, found in this very square spouting their blasphemies and seeking converts away from the one true Church. They would not renounce their wrong faith, and when their life's blood spills here today, their souls will remand in Hell. NOT"---and here he leaned forward and roared into the two heretics' faces—"WITH YOUR FALSE PAGAN GOD! Repent now, repent now," he hissed at them, loud enough for his voice to reverberate throughout the square. "And maybe you will be allowed entry into the gates of Heaven!"

The two trembled and closed their eyes but said nothing.

"They know they're already dead," Edward said to his brother. "Why would they bother?"

"He's just trying to humiliate them," Alphonse whispered. "And scare everyone else."

The Inquisitor moved along the line of prisoners. Most hung their heads so that he would not catch their eye. He intoned their transgressions as he passed them.

"Witch, witch, practitioner of the black arts….heretic and revolutionary… " He pointed at a man with a graying beard … "Rebellious priest who criticizes the Inquisition, sympathizer with the Reformation…Do you renounce your blasphemy, brother?"

"No, murderer. I do not," the man said, raising his head.

The Inquisitor set his mouth grimly and walked on. He stopped again before the two youngest prisoners, the two boys. A few people shouted protests that these were just children, and the Inquisitor turned to the crowd to respond, gesturing to the two.

"I know these are just boys, but they are not innocents. These brothers are Alchemists, the children of Alchemists themselves! …You shouldn't pity them, they are not real children, they cut their milk teeth on transmutations and scientific anathema, they are hardly human!" he said, dramatically and with relish. "I've spent many hours with these two, trying to learn their secrets…unlike the witches who commune with the Devil to obtain their power, these heretics pervert the power of nature…they manipulate our world, our world that God made and gave to us, they use their wicked science to destroy and to create as if they themselves are above God!…but, Believers, what they create are not natural things…the Alchemists have the power to create creatures made from people coupled with beasts—I've seen these abominations, and they are terrible to behold, like demons from hell! They can use the elements to create disasters, create beings out of dirt that will do their evil bidding, turn water into fire and fire into water, freeze our rivers and turn our crops to dust…"

"Now he's just making stuff up," said Edward.

"…they claim they are people of science and reason who only use the laws of nature, but I've seen the destruction they can cause with their so-called science, and the people of Amestris are not safe until every last Alchemist is destroyed!"

The crowd cheered for that, and the two boys before the Inquisitor trembled.

Al bent down so he could speak in his brother's ear. "They're brothers, just like us."

Edward just swallowed and nodded. It was too close to home. If they were found out, they would find themselves in the same position. It didn't matter that they were children, or that they were under the protection of the monastery. Nothing could make them safe.

Their helplessness oppressed the brothers as they watched the Inquisitor finish his rantings about the prisoners. He gave all of them one more chance to repent, confess, humiliate themselves, although he made it clear there would be no mercy from the punishment. None responded, and they all stood there, staring blankly and resignedly as a column of Crusaders stepped from the ranks ringing the square and came forward with their swords drawn. The Inquisitor explained what was going to happen to the "criminals." The soldiers were going to cut off their heads, and then their remains were going to be carted to a place outside the village where they would be burnt on a pyre, ringed with rocks to put a border upon their evil spirits, which would linger in purgatory or hell until the End of Time, when the Apocalypse would bring final Judgment upon all. The crowd shuddered at the horrible fate, but still no one made a move to leave. Everyone wanted to see.

The killing began. One by one, a single soldier advanced from the column to hack off the head of each of the condemned. They each killed only one. Was it to lighten the burden of killing on each soul, or was it to afford a treat to each soldier? They wore helmets so it was impossible to tell what expression the men wore on their faces as they swung their swords and took off a head. Three, four…the sound of a sword slicing through a neck made a dull, percussive sound. It soon became clear that most necks would require two or three strokes to sever, and by the time the head came off, the body would already be slumped on the ground, soaked in blood. Blood flowed from the necks and began to spread in an ever-widening pool on the dirt, so thick that it didn't have time to seep in before it mingled with more, so that soon the Inquisitor was ankle deep in blood and mud, and the prisoners who were next were too.

It was terrible to watch. Even a majority of the crowd, so recently filled with righteousness and blood-lust, began to cover their faces and hide from the sight. Edward squeezed his eyes shut somewhere between numbers 4 and 5, but he still felt a wave of nausea wash over him, just hearing the sounds of the hacking, and the screams of the formerly inanimate prisoners, who had begun to struggle, seeing the fate that awaited them come so near.

Ed turned and pressed his face against Al's middle. "Don't look," he said. "Stop looking."

"I can't," said Al. "Unless I turn around, I can't close my eyes."

It was not something Edward wanted to hear at that moment. He felt himself begin to come apart. He had been wrong in thinking he could stand to see this carnage. He squeezed his eyes tighter and tighter but still, he couldn't help it—he felt certain he was about to be sick.

Al looked down to see the top of his brother's blond head, his big brother so small and trembling against him, he couldn't help but pull a protective arm around him. At the same time, he didn't listen to his brother's command to stop looking. It was horrible, but he couldn't feel sick, and he didn't feel fear in that physical way that made one dizzy or sick or paralyzed. He could look, no matter how much it hurt to see. The thirteenth and fourteenth prisoners fell and the pool of blood was practically a pond of red, in which some soldiers, the Inquisitor, and the remaining prisoners were standing, while the dead lay in the bloody mud. It looked like how Alphonse had imagined Hell to be, and he wondered at how the Inquisitor had managed to create Hell right here before their eyes, to stand as some kind of dreadful warning to the rest of them.

Some people in the crowd had fainted, and now people really were reeling away, disgusted at the sight, though most still remained, transfixed, looking through their fingers, praying with their eyes shut. Prisoner number fifteen fell and a fresh soldier stepped forward with his sword drawn. His target was the young child, who stood thin and shivering, eyes wide and staring. Even the Crusader could not help but pause. He stopped in his steps and people in the crowd began to shout, "Stop! Stop! He's just a child!" The older boy standing next to him suddenly tried to throw himself in front of his brother, bringing the prisoners bound to him on the other side to reel and fall against each other. The youngest fell down, led by the rope still looped over his neck and trailing through the bloody mud, tangled with the bodies of the dead. The crowd went crazy, and pushed from their misery the remaining prisoners came to life and began to scramble.

Pandemonium broke out. At first, Alphonse thought it was just the rest of the soldiers rushing into the center to restore order, but it soon became clear that a group of riders were descending into the square. They were not Crusaders, and the colors they wore were not of the King or any others Al had ever seen. Swords drawn, they bore down onto the crowd. They weren't many, but they were fast and had powerful horses. The crowd dispersed and ran in all directions as the riders approached, slashing their swords and bearing down in the direction of the Inquisitor. Al felt the crowd surge behind him, and immediately he scooped his brother up into his arms and broke out in a run, away from the center of the square, where the riders had reached and metal hitting against metal signaled a battle had begun.

Al stopped in a narrow lane lined with houses to hide. Only a few more paces would have brought them into open fields. They were still close enough to the village square to hear the sounds of fighting, and people were now running and shouting, some passing right by them to go into their houses or leave town altogether. He put Ed down.

"Did you see who it was?" Ed asked breathlessly.

"I didn't get a good look."

"I hope someone kills that damn Inquisitor. I'd do it myself..."

They both headed for the opening of the lane and peered around the corner house. Part of the square could be seen from here; there was a battle going on, crusaders, mounted and on foot, were fighting with lightly armed men, most on horse, but it seemed some were on foot as well. The Inquisitor in his red robe was nowhere to be seen. The prisoners who had been alive when the fighting started were also gone.

"Who are those guys?" Al wondered. "They're not the King's men."

"Invaders?" Ed offered. "Maybe from one of the border states they're always going on about?"

There was a percussive noise, a roll like thunder, and then an explosion right in the middle of the square that threw several soldiers in the air. The light that accompanied the explosion had been blue.

The brothers both gasped. Before another moment had passed, a horse screamed as a sword was driven into its neck. The horse reared high, and the man seated on top of it raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and with a crack and another snap of blue light, fire flew from his fingers and fell upon the soldiers ringing his horse. He pulled the horse back and ran to the other side of the square.

"They're using alchemy!"

Edward experienced a surge of hope. They had found fellow alchemists! So there were alchemists who were practicing freely—and using it as a weapon against the Inquisitor and the Crusaders.

There were at least two alchemists among the riders, maybe more. There were more alchemic flashes and explosions as the Crusaders were repelled and began to fall back around the square. But the invaders were still too small a force to completely overpower them. They began to pull away from the square themselves, and scatter through the streets of the village, taking off through lanes and paths leading to the South and West, toward the forest. As a few horses pounded by them, the brothers saw some of the people who had been slated for execution, dazed and covered in mud, sitting behind the riders and clinging for their lives. Had the whole thing been a rescue mission, or was there some other purpose?

Ed sat down on the ground and, pulling the copper charity cen out of his pocket, began to scrape an array onto the slate walk they were standing on.

"What are you doing? Someone might see!" Al moved to shield Ed's work as best he could.

When he was finished, Ed placed the coin in the array, and, quickly groping around, found a thick stick and placed that into the array too. He touched the edge, a quick blue flash that made Alphonse rush forward to hide it from sight, and then reached out for the rather nice, if small, wooden knife he had made, with a sharp copper tip. He let Al help him to stand and then held the knife in his hand.

"Al, you go find one of those Alchemists, let them know we want to come with them. I'll wait here."

"I can't leave you here alone."

Ed brandished the weapon. "I have protection now. I won't let anyone take me. Go!"

Al rushed off but not without glancing back at Edward. A little crippled boy leaning on a crutch with a tiny copper-bladed knife in his one hand was not exactly the most threatening sight in the world, but his brother somehow managed to look a little fierce, as he motioned for him to go on.

Al ran straight for the square and watched as the last contingent of intruders began to tear away from the Crusaders. He saw the alchemist who had thrown fire before—a man with ivory skin and black hair—do it again, repelling a small cluster of Crusaders with a wall of flame, before his horse rose on its hind legs and turned to bolt. Al tore as fast as he could around the edge of the square, following the horse and rider down towards the lane that led north, like a spoke on a wheel from the center of the town.

"Wait!" he shouted, running as fast as he could. "Please, wait!"

The rider turned around and shot a glance over his shoulder, but then turned again and snapped his reigns, making his horse go faster. When Al turned back to the square, all the insurgents were gone, it was just Crusaders milling around, examining their injured comrades, and cursing up a storm. Men on horseback continued to wheel around the square and into the lanes, looking for straggling, detached prisoners, or, likely, for new ones. But the alchemists and their party were now gone. His heart sinking, Alphonse turned to go back to Edward.

His brother was still in the same lane, but sitting on the ground near the second house in, and still holding his little weapon. As Al drew closer he could see that he was splattered with mud and dust, as if someone had knocked him over, and he quickened his pace again. Ed didn't seem hurt, but his eyes clouded immediately when he discerned that his brother had failed in his mission to make contact with the alchemists.

"What happened?" asked Al. "Are you hurt?"  
"Nah…a bunch of riders tore through here and didn't even see me, I got out of their way in time, but I kind of had to dive for it…" He looked up at Al. "See, I'm fine. Just, help me up."

Standing again, Edward drew himself up and made that fierce face again, the one that Al rather liked, because his eyes seemed so bright and sharp, like they had always been, before. "So now we know. We have a goal now. We can leave—and go find them."

"I guess there's no better time," Alphonse agreed, emboldened by his brother's resolve.

"Tomorrow," said Edward. "We're leaving tomorrow."

"So soon? I thought we were waiting for spring."

"We've hung around here long enough, it's time to get moving, so we can make things right. Right?" Again Ed looked up, and Al's questions dissolved.

"Right," he said.

At that moment, Brother Matthew and Brother Sebastian ran over, Sebastian leading his horse. They clucked and fussed over the boys like mother hens. Sebastian climbed onto the horse, and Matthew lifted Ed up to sit in front of him, Sebastian's steadying arm around his chest once again. Ed even allowed himself to lean back and relax onto Sebastian for a while, knowing that after today, they were going to be on their own, with no adults to hold them up.

"You're freezing and covered in mud," Brother Matthew said as he lifted Edward off the horse in front of the monastery's stables. He hurried him inside, while Al helped Brother Sebastian unpack the bags tied to the horse. "You'll need a bath before you do anything else," he said as they entered the courtyard. Ed followed him to the bathhouse, where there were two large wooden tubs and several buckets, bath or shower, cold or cold, a fireplace, currently unlit. Ed sat down on a bench and examined his dirty fingernails, waiting while Matthew lit the fire and heated a series of metal pots of water, thinking all the while how easily he could heat them with alchemy.

The bathwater was nice and hot and Edward tried to relax into it, but his mind would not stop circling around the events of the day, and the fact that they had to tell Brother Matthew that they were leaving.

"Don't fall asleep, now," said Brother Matthew, laughing, misinterpreting Ed's closed eyes. He handed Ed a piece of soap, large and rough, and Ed scrubbed at his face and chest with it. Without being asked, Matthew soaped his back, then poured water over his head to wash his hair. Edward kept his eyes closed, his savoring of the comfort of being cared for at war with his usual demand to be left to struggle by himself. Tonight however he had to concentrate on trying to organize his thoughts.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," commented Matthew, kneeling by the side of the tub. "Thinking about what you saw today?"

"Yes…"

"I was hoping that you and Alphonse did not get to see that. It was terrible, such a disgrace. I am ashamed for what the Inquisitor did in the name of our faith."

When Ed looked up at him from his place in the bath, he could see Brother Matthew's eyes cast down, so unlike him.

"It's no wonder to me," Matthew went on, "that you don't believe, when you see something like that."

He opened his eyes and met Ed's.

"I'm sorry you had to see that. If you're anything like me, those sights will never be erased from your memory. I remember the first time I saw such horrors, when I was a boy, I saw twelve men hanged for treason, and I could never forget it. To know that your innocent eyes have now seen such an evil thing…it breaks my heart."

Matthew looked down again.

Ed touched his sleeve and Matthew raised his eyes again.

"I'm not so innocent," he said, so moved by Matthew's misery that he was about to confess. "I've committed a sin. A big one."

Matthew smiled. "What could that be? I've heard you take God's name in vain many times, but I think we can be forgiving of that."

"No," said Edward. "I'm serious. It's the reason I'm…like this"—he looked down at his maimed body—"and why Al is….it's why, I have to tell you…we're leaving tomorrow."

"I see," Matthew said, his face becoming shadowed. The usually talkative Matthew then went quiet as he got behind Edward and pulled him from the bath. Sitting him on the bench, he began to dry him with a piece of linen. Finally moved out of his torpor, Ed pulled the flannel away and began to dry himself.

Matthew stepped back. "So you're leaving us?"

Ed couldn't look at him as he nodded yes. He rubbed awkwardly at his hair with the flannel.

"We have to. We don't belong here. We've taken advantage of your hospitality long enough."

Matthew watched him and Ed tried to ignore the attention; he wanted to help, but he couldn't let himself be coddled. Not when he was about to confess to him. But although he was clearly troubled, Matthew remained his kind self.

"We'll comb your hair upstairs, all right? Come."

Ed felt a knot in his stomach as he followed Brother Matthew inside and up to his room. Still unusually quiet, Matthew sat down on the bed while Ed went for the comb. He held it out to Brother Matthew awkwardly--how many times had he combed his hair? The last time for that, they both knew. The last thing that Ed had said hung between them. Ed wondered how much he had surmised from that, and what he was thinking he was confessing to. He sat down on the bed and pushed his wet hair behind his shoulders.

"Are you at all sorry to leave?" asked Matthew, working the comb through Ed's hair gently.

"Yes, a little. Excited, too, you know…" Ed finished lamely, guiltily. It had always been understood that they wouldn't stay, hadn't it? Still, he felt guilty now. Part of him wished he could repay Brother Matthew's kindness by being what he wanted. A good, pious boy who wanted to be close to their god and become an apothecary.

"Of course. I was just your age when I left Central Palatinate to become a novice…that long journey before me seemed the greatest adventure I could imagine…"

Ed smiled. He'd heard this story a hundred times before. "You'll have to point us in the right direction."

Matthew worked the knots out of his hair more gently than Ed could ever manage himself.

"So, you're a sinner, like the rest of us," Matthew said finally.

"_You're_ not a sinner."

"Do you think just because I live here that I am perfect? I'm not. In my heart I am like every other man. I wasn't born good, or better than anyone else."

"But you haven't—"

The combing stopped.

"Haven't what? Used the devil's arts? Is that what you've done?"

Ed turned to look at him over his shoulder.

"Alchemy isn't evil. It's just science, I could explain it all to you, it all makes perfect sense, it has nothing to do with the devil-"

"It is unnatural!" interrupted Matthew firmly, so that Ed was obliged to turn his face away again, as Matthew tugged slightly harder at his hair with the comb. "But I don't think all alchemists are evil, and if you are an alchemist…" Matthew's hand stopped again. He got up and moved to sit before Edward, and looked at him with his warm, serious brown eyes.

"If you are an alchemist, then you've paid dearly for your tampering with nature," he said, touching the stump of Edward's shoulder gently. His eyes began to shine with tears. "Surely you've paid enough to get to Heaven, if you live the rest of your life well."

Suddenly, Edward found himself holding back tears. Mortified, he took a deep breath and mastered himself. When he spoke it almost sounded like choking.

"I can't just sit around and wait to get to Heaven! I have to make things right, now. And no god is going to help us."

"Only God can perform miracles," said Matthew. "You would be foolish to try."

"I have to try again, for my brother. It's the only way."

Matthew sighed. "I will miss you and Alphonse, very much." He began twisting Edward's hair into a braid. Clearing his throat of emotion he said, "This will keep it clean for a while."

"Thanks." Ed felt his throat tighten.

"You're very strong, remember that. I'm proud of you." Matthew squeezed his shoulder, and Edward reached up and put his hand over his.

"Thank you for everything," he said. "And...I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me," said Matthew, his voice a bit choked, as he rose from the bed and handed Ed the comb. "It's your maker you have to answer to."

Alphonse and Brother Sebastian had brought the last of the provisions into the kitchens and were making their way back upstairs to the dormitories. As they crossed the courtyard, shouting could be heard. Sebastian immediately stopped and placed his hand on Al's arm. Suddenly, pounding could be heard from above as several brothers came down the central steps, shouting that a group of horsemen were approaching. The bell rang, and panic began to break out.

"Soldiers!" "Raiders!" "Outlaws!"

So, there was some confusion in interpreting the provenance of the riders, but in any case, some were definitely coming towards St. Amery's.

Some men began to fall to their knees in prayer, while others went to find weapons. Al stood still, listening as the pounding of the approaching horses grew louder. The ground did not begin to rumble, so he didn't imagine it was a very large contingent. Still, he felt panic rise in his mind.

"Sebastian?" Al turned back to his companion. "We have to get my brother, and Matthew, now!"

They ran off together, up the central stairs, pushing against men running the other way to pray in the sanctuary, hoping, no doubt, that whoever the horsemen were, they might fear to kill men at prayer in a holy place, but knowing that it probably wouldn't help.

Alphonse reached their cell first, finding Brother Matthew looking frantically out the window. From there the approaching riders could be seen.

"It's a small group, maybe ten men," said Matthew breathlessly. "Not so many. I think we can defend ourselves if they mean to do us harm."

"Of course they mean to do us harm. I don't know who they are with, I don't see a shield or banner." Matthew peered out the window again.

Ed rose from the bed and hopped to the window, caught in Matthew's arms. His eyes narrowed as the group of horsemen approached, and then he lost sight of them as they reached the monastery gate. Now all that could be heard was their shouting to be admitted. It took nothing more than a single blast of something explosive, because that was all he could hear, and then the sound of the horses rampaging into the courtyard. Ed's heart pounded.

"What are they here for?" Sebastian demanded. "Father Gilles had better speak to them before they do any damage. Maybe all they want is provisions. They can take what we bought today, it doesn't matter, as long as they leave without--"

"I see no colors! It might be outlaws, here to take revenge for today," Matthew said, his face draining of color. "Kill a few monks in retaliation for that savage display in town. They're not above it."

"Or below it," said Sebastian. "It would seem fair if it wasn't lives involved. A fair trade."

Ed said, "You've all created this, everybody's guilty. Nobody stopped the Inquisitor today."

"We are too, we didn't do anything either," said Al.

There were shouts and screams, clatters and bangs coming from below. Every heart beat fast.

Sebastian ran to the door. "Just stay here, they won't want anything up here. I'll see if I can find out what they want. I'll come get you when it's safe."

"I'll help," Al said, following him to the door.

Before they made it to the door, however, it was kicked inwards and a huge man advanced into the tiny room, filling it immediately. He scanned the occupants, his small blue eyes resting on Ed, then Al. He seemed almost serene and not in any hurry as he nodded his head and turned to the door.

"Crimson, I found them!" he shouted. "I'll take it from here, no need to come up...stop that mayhem!" he shouted toward the stairs, but there was more scuffling, and another explosive sound. Smoke curled through the doorway as the large man stepped aside. Edward found himself covered by Matthew who now pressed him against the wall by the window, protecting him, but not entirely hiding him from the man who entered the room. Like the huge man, he wasn't dressed as a soldier. He held a sword loosely in one hand. He narrowed his yellow eyes.

"How could I miss this, it's too much fun," said the man to his partner, who now stood looking aggrieved and annoyed. "Your brothers have panicked," he said, looking straight at Brother Matthew. "They've made things rather more difficult than I would have liked." He pointed his sword toward him and gestured for him to move aside. "That boy behind you, he's coming with us." He turned to Alphonse. "The armor too."

"No!" Matthew said, pressing Ed so hard against the wall that he could barely breathe. "You're not taking them!"

"Step aside, holy fool, and I won't have to send you to your Heaven just yet," said the man.

"What do you want with him? He didn't do anything. He's a cripple, can't you see? What use can he be to you?"

"He may look useless, but he's an alchemist, the armored one, too." Then he smirked. "Or didn't you know that?"

Alphonse stepped forward now between the man called Crimson and Ed, and Sebastian stepped closer as well.

"What are you going to do with them?" Matthew demanded. "You can't execute them, they're only children!"

"Of course I'm not going to execute them. I'm going to execute you."

And then the man sheathed his sword, and lunged for Brother Matthew. His hands were against Brother Matthew's chest in an instant, and suddenly there was an explosion, and blood rained down on the room. Sebastian backed away in terror, crossing himself.

"I'd love to kill that one too, but we'd best get going," Crimson said to his partner. "Grab the boy and let's go."

The man took two steps, and bent down to pick up a struggling Ed. Ed was no match for the man, who just slung him over his shoulder without the slightest effort. Alphonse stood looking at the remains of Brother Matthew, a burst, burnt rib cage, smears of blood, charred bones. Edward raised his head, coughed and gagged, and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Come on, Armor," the big man said, turning around so that Edward swung like a cat by its tail. "Don't try to run or things will just go harder on you."

Alphonse acquiesced to his wrists being tied and the rope was held by the towering blond man who looked apologetic as he took the other end and began to walk. They followed the train of men on horseback. Some, like the Crimson one, galloped ahead, while others went more slowly, but all in the direction of the forest. Anxiously, Al kept an eye on his brother, who was propped up against another man who sat slumped in his saddle, looking tired and disgusted. This one was tall and slim and sleepy-eyed and had an unlit pipe dangling from his mouth. He kept one arm around Ed's chest as he rode.

When they entered the forest even the moonlight was lost, and the torches held by some of the riders lit the way. The trees were tall, ancient and eerie, towering overhead in a column, deepening the surrounding darkness. It was almost like walking through a tunnel, Al thought, as he trudged behind the huge man, who kept glancing back at him occasionally with an inscrutable look.

"What are you going to do with us?" he finally asked of the man, unable to take the suspense. His worst fear was that they meant to kill them, but of course, would probably only succeed in killing his brother, leaving him alone. He couldn't think of a worse fate.

The man glanced back again and twisted his mouth, as if he wanted to reply but couldn't. After a moment he sighed. "You've come to the attention of someone important, and he wants to meet you, that's all."

It wasn't much of an answer, but Al tried to make himself feel content with it. It didn't sound like something someone would say if they were about to kill you, but he still couldn't push the image of what they'd done to Brother Matthew from his mind.

They walked for quite some time, deep into the forest, until Al could see some firelight farther up ahead. As they approached he saw a camp in a clearing. Rough tents circled the perimeter, with one noticeably larger one near the center by a roaring fire. There were a few people about, sitting in front of the tents, tending to the fire, and a couple cooking at a smaller fire. A dog approached the group as the men in front began to dismount, sniffing around. It approached Al and stood at his feet, looking up quizzically as if deciding whether to bark or not. He had this kind of effect on dogs. His depressing surmise about this was that they could not tell whether he was alive or not. But when the tall, slender young man slid off his horse and then reached up for Edward, the dog came bounding up to scent the new arrival.

Seeing that his brother was in the uncomfortable position of having nothing to lean on but the stranger, Al quickly went to his side. Ed looked down at the dog and then up at Al.

Someone in a black hood and cape strode toward them, calling off the dog. It was a woman's voice, and when she took down her hood Alphonse saw she had cropped blond hair and wide, amber eyes, pretty but serious.

"How did it go Havoc?" she asked to the slender blond one.

The man sighed and chewed on the end of his pipe. "The usual bloodbath, when Crimson's involved. I don't know why it had to be him in charge."

"He does have a heavy hand."

"To say the least. I don't think we needed that kind of force to wrest a cripple boy from a bunch of monks but who am I to say?" He shrugged and started to unbuckle the saddle on his horse.

"So, these are the two he wanted?" the woman asked.

"I sure hope so. I can't imagine there's another pair that fit their description."

"We'll see," she said. When she turned around to take her dog by the collar and gently push him away, Al saw a bow and a quiver of arrows slung across her back. When she faced them again, she gave them an appraising look before motioning for them to follow. "Let's go. Mustang wants to see you."

"Dammit." Ed hesitated. He was still shuddering, trying to push the vision of Brother Matthew's murder from his mind. It made his very bones shake and he realized with some surprise that he was terrified. If these people could do something that violent and cruel, who knew what would happen to him and Al?

Even though the man called Havoc hadn't told him anything on the ride into the camp, he already recognized the work of the Crimson as one of the alchemists they'd seen in Rizenbul that day. They alchemists were going to be their safe haven, their ticket home, but instead they were crazed murderers. They'd just stormed the monastery and killed Brother Matthew--and maybe others, he hadn't had the chance to find out. Why had they gone through so much trouble just to get at _them_? He was fully aware of how tiny and useless he looked, but tried his best anyway to look alert and fierce as they followed the woman with the bow into the large tent.

"Mustang, sir." The woman stood aside and let Al pass; he stopped beside her and Ed tapped on Al's chest to be let down. He stood, as best he could, leaning against Al, trying to stand straight and look formidable as he could, given the circumstances.

A man stood with his back to him, facing the lantern in the center of the floor and looking at a map, before turning. He was tall and ivory-skinned, with dark, smooth hair that fell over his brow and nearly obscured his dark eyes. Al recognized him as the man who had used fire alchemy in the square that day. It was dim in the tent, and the lantern gave off a quivering orange glow. Mustang walked forward, kitted out, Ed noticed, in shiny tall boots and a dark blue surcoat, well-cared for but weathered. His expression as he looked up at Al and down at Ed was one of appraisal. His face betrayed no expression as he rolled up his map.

"Well," he said finally. "Why don't you show me some alchemy?"

Ed looked up sharply. "Your men are murderers. One of them men killed our friend, and maybe some other innocent people."

Mustang moved his lips as if thinking. "I regret that there was violence--"

"You regret?" Ed repeated angrily. "That one they call Crimson, he's a murderer. I thought that when we found some alchemists..."

"What did you think?"

"I don't know! We were going to come find you anyway, we saw you in the town square today, with the Inquisitor. It didn't have to be like that."

Mustang drew himself up and spread his arms. "As I said, I regret what happened. The Crimson is unpredictable. But it's not your problem, it's mine. You're both alchemists, are you not?"

Ed nodded in affirmation, as Al did beside him.

"And you were in Rizenbul today, you saw what the Inquisitor did. He's the murderer, he and his Army of God are the ones who are the criminals. They were slaughtering innocents by the dozen. You saw that. You were spotted doing alchemy today and we had a scout follow you...we need all the help we can get, and frankly, it had occurred to us that perhaps you were being held by the monks against your will." He gave them a serious look. "Did they try to turn you away from science?"

Ed hesitated, glancing at Al. "They didn't know."

Mustang nodded. "The only reason you still live, you know that." He paced a bit as he spoke now, hands clasped behind his back. "These are dark times, and superstition and ignorance rule our world. We think it's time for that to change, for a new world."

Al finally spoke, sounding timid. "So...you're revolutionaries?"

Mustang nodded, a fierce look in his eye. "Yes, we are. We want you to join us."

Ed snorted at looked at Al. "They're the outlaws everyone's always talking about!"

The size of their group hadn't been particularly impressive, from what Ed could recall of their performance in the town that day, and he was still repulsed by the violence at the monastery. "How many are you?"

"We have a half dozen alchemists, and thirty-six soldiers in our unofficial army."

"And you're they're leader?"

Mustang nodded curtly. "Yes. We are growing, we won't be a small band of outlaws for long."

Ed looked up at Mustang. He was torn...this was what they had been looking for, and yet, the idea of being a part of a group that contained people like the Crimson was revolting.

Mustang reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out a cloth glove. He pulled it on ceremoniously—almost pompously, Ed thought--then blinked, drew up his hand, and snapped. A small flash of fire erupted and disappeared in an instant.

"There. Now you."

Ed felt his leg begin to shake under him, he was tired and standing like this was hard. He took this directive as a cue to let his ass hit the dirt, then leaned forward and began to scratch an array into the dirt. After years of hiding, an invitation to show off their alchemy overshadowed all other doubts. Al crouched down next to him, helping to finish the far side. They worked in practiced silence; they'd done this one a dozen times in the woods themselves, away from the monastery. Activating it, they both fed it power as it glowed. A moment later, Ed pressed his palm to the ground, summoning the metallic elements into a small spear, and drew it from the earth. He held it up.

"Well, well, very nice," Mustang said. "So you two aren't amateurs, are you?"

"No sir," said Ed, rising to the compliment. "We've been out of practice lately, though."

"Yes, they frown on science at the monasteries, I know." Mustang came close, and crouched down before them. "So tell me, how did you come to be there?"

Ed looked at Al, hesitating. This might be their chance. It was obvious that here was the place to be. They were with other alchemists, and maybe they could help them, but still, doubt lingered, over the violence they had just witnessed.

"It's a long story," Ed decided to say.

Mustang stood up and crossed his arms. "If you're going to ride with us, we have to know your true intentions. Not all alchemists want to bring the light of science to the world. Some want to use it to gain power of their own."

Ed nodded. It was cold on the ground and he was close to shivering, but he didn't want to show any weakness to this man. He wanted him to see him as a warrior, someone who could be a help, not a hindrance. It occurred to him that if he were found to be useless, he might end up like Brother Matthew. But the fact was, if they stayed with these outlaws, they could develop their alchemy. It was their only chance.

"Let's get more comfortable first," Mustang said, his voice still dispassionate but not unkind. "Hawkeye, can you please have someone bring in some soup?" Mustang bent down and gently helped Ed to stand, bracing his shoulders with his hands.

"They just grabbed me," Ed said. "My crutch is back at the monastery."

Mustang frowned. "Really, Crimson didn't have to be so…impetuous. We'll make you a new one."

"I can do it with alchemy if someone can get me some good wood." Al came to his side to help him stand.

"Of course, I'll see to it." Mustang crossed his arms and regarded them with more scrutiny now, looking from Ed to Al and back again

"Listen...this is a rough business, and it's not for everyone. We'd like your help..." --here he looked at Al as well-- "...but it's not going to be pleasant, or easy. If you're not strong enough..."

"I'm strong!" Ed shot back, meeting Mustang's eyes with a glare. "I may not look it but I am. I just don't want to be a part of things like what happened today at the monastery."

"That's now how we do things," Al affirmed quietly.

"I can't promise you there won't be violence, that is the nature of our mission, as I said. You'd be a soldier, of sorts. You'll learn to fight, to use your alchemy in battle, and make weapons for us."

"To destroy things," Al said.

"To destroy the order of things as they are now," Mustang amended. "We need enlightenment and progress, and people are going to get hurt in the process, that's the way of things."

Ed stared at the slender spear in his hand.

"What are you waiting for, divine intervention?" asked Mustang, sounding exasperated. He began to pace. "Look at you...this country has nothing for you now, you're fugitives anyway, aren't you?" He looked meaningfully at Alphonse. "Human transmutation, hmm? Anyone who cared to pay attention would figure it out in a moment, and without the monks' protection, you're off to the Inquisitor."

Ed stabbed at the dirt with the spear and sat down again, no longer able to stand. He stared at it, thinking.

Mustang stepped closer again so that all Ed could see were his weatherbeaten boots. "Since you were at the monastery I'm assuming you're orphans. You have nowhere else to go...you'll be a beggar on the streets of the nearest town within a fortnight, I guarantee it, and without protection your brother will have to go into hiding. You need us, and we need you."

Ed squeezed his hand into a fist and contemplated it for a moment. Their only hope was here, and he knew it. He looked up and held Mustang's glare. "All right, then. On one condition."

He was sure he saw Mustang's eyes spark a bit, amusement perhaps, that he dared to try to strike a bargain in his current position of helplessness.

"And what would that be?" Mustang asked, crossing his arms, still towering over him.

"We want any information you, or any of these other alchemists, has on the philosopher's stone, and on accessing the Gate."

Mustang paused, knit his brows, then nodded. "I have nothing, and I can't insist that others share their secrets, but when I come across a lead on such information, I'll let you know. How does that sound?"

Ed looked at Al. "Are we in?"

Al responded with quick nod of his helmet. "We're in."

Mustang uncrossed his arms and smiled. "Good."

--to be continued


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

Three Years Later

Amestris, Spring 1509

The flesh pots of Aquaroia had become a bore, Edward Elric decided, pushing his way through a crowd of gawkers watching a troop of nearly naked Xingian contortionists. In this district, it seemed that with every step he had to fend off prostitutes reaching brazenly for his hand or his face. A young girl, surely no older than himself, stepped in front of him and waggled her breasts, which were entirely exposed from her bodice, aside from a film of lace across the nipples.

"Fancy a bit of fun?" she asked appealingly, and Ed felt a pang of guilt. He stopped, not wanting to push her away, and blushed as she smiled at him hopefully. "Come, I have a place!"

He felt her fingers wrap around his arm and looked down to see her hands. She smelled fairly clean, and her hands were small and soft.

"Uh, no, thank you," he said, but began to dig in his pocket for a coin. If he gave her something, he wouldn't feel so bad.

"Please?" she said brightly, showing her teeth in a sweet smile. She leaned in close and whispered. "I won't even charge you extra for being a cripple."

Ed felt himself go crimson and he wrested his arm from her. Embarrassed, he left off trying to find money for her and pulled away. She pouted at him, but looked truly disappointed. Maybe she would prefer a young cripple to the old men she'd no doubt be entertaining in his stead. Ed went away with one last glance over his shoulder, only to be accosted by several more less persistent whores as he made his way to the inn where Mustang was currently holding court.

He was in a bad mood; his errand had been a failure. He had been sent to retrieve an alchemist that had been with them for several months, but the man had run off from them as soon as they had hit Aquaroia. There were at least two others here to recruit as well, but they were having an unusually hard time of it convincing them to join the outlaws. Ed though that they'd spent enough time in this stupid town cajoling alchemists to join them. Unlike Al and himself, most of them were not so desperate. In this lawless town they lived fairly openly. Ed had tried to be convincing but the runaway had refused to see reason that he would be contributing to the greater good. Ed had left angry and frustrated, and he was not looking forward to disappointing Mustang.

He slowed his pace as he drew closer to the inn. Mustang would be sarcastic, maybe imperious, depending on his mood. Ed hated to have failed him. He used to not care so much, a pat on the head in the early days was always nice, and if Mustang occasionally deigned to practice alchemy with him or teach him how to sit a horse, he was always grateful, even if he didn't always show it. Al always thanked Mustang enough for both of them, and he had all his lackeys, his original core of soldiers who would follow him to the gates of hell itself, they were that loyal. He would be, too; he _was_, if only he didn't have another purpose. It was still on his mind every moment, and every moment he didn't think of it he had to chastise himself: restore Al, and, as a corollary, get home. But first, restore Al. He knew that the soul attached to the armor was a tenuous, temporary thing and it terrified him to think that it had been nearly five years since he had done the transmutation. When he had originally done it, he had not imagined that it would be five years later and still this way.

Ed found himself wondering who would be with Mustang when he went to his room. He hated himself for feeling jealous of others who were closer to him, who held his closer confidence. He wanted to show him he was capable of man's work, pulling the rogue alchemist back into the fold on his own would have been a coup. He had to let go of the fantasy of returning triumphant, he realized, and grumbled to himself as he made his way down the narrow alley toward the inn. He walked carefully around discarded rubbish and pools of water and stagnant piss and who knew what else that littered the streets of this foul town. He was still not used to how filthy the cities were in this time, how the air in all towns was rank with the smell of burning offal, day in and day out, any time of year. The coal and wood fires cooking and boiling wool or leather or garbage let off a constant stench that he couldn't get out of his nostrils until they were a day or two in the countryside. They'd been in this town for only a few days and already he'd had enough.

He grumbled to himself as he climbed the accursed stairs to the small tower of the inn, dragging his ungainly wooden leg as he took each narrow slice of step one at a time, holding on to the wall for dear life. It was as if Mustang chose the place most inconvenient to himself, just to spite him.

In the tower room Mustang was sitting at a table with a map spread before him, Havoc and Hawkeye and Armstrong were also there, bent over the table and studying something intently. Ed moved across the small circular room toward the window where they were hoarding the daylight for their map, waiting for them to give him their attention.

"He says no," Ed announced flatly.

"No is it?" Mustang looked at Ed with what Ed interpreted to be an ironic, superior gaze. "I thought you said you'd get him."

"I thought I would," Ed said, frowning. "Damn him."

"Damning him won't get us the information that we need unless you are planning on following him down to hell," said Mustang, tapping his fingers on the table before him. He looked up at Armstrong. "That's it, tonight we get him."

"You're going to kidnap him?" Ed knew he should know better than to be appalled, after all this time; things were brutal here. He disapproved of the kidnapping, as he did, at first, of nearly every one of the outlaws' brutal tactics. After all, that was how he had gotten here himself. He tried not to think of what had happened to Brother Matthew, because of him, but it still haunted him.

"Of course. Now that he knows our purpose he is more dangerous than ever. Armstrong, you go tonight. Take Alphonse. Between the two of you, you won't have any trouble."

Armstrong agreed with an obliging nod of his head. The son of a noble family, his was the noblest blood to be found in the gang of outlaws; it had taken Ed a while to realize that in most other cases, Armstrong would have been the one in charge. But the outlaws were not like the rest of Amestris, hierarchical and built upon the bones of the poor—or so they claimed. Mustang was a commoner, a self-described mongrel from Central City. Like Brother Matthew, he too claimed to have grown up in the shadow of the Sacred Heart. That, however, was all Ed knew of his past. That, and like most of the outlaws, that he was a former soldier in the King's army.

The others left and Ed waited. Moments alone with Mustang—with their leader—were rare enough. Ed looked up to meet Mustang's dark eyes. "I'm not sure I like you sending my little brother out to kidnap someone."

Mustang sighed. "Elric…Edward." His expression softened. "We've been through this before. I am your commanding officer."

"This isn't the official military!" Ed protested. "We never took any oaths, you don't own us."

Mustang closed his eyes as if in forbearance. "No, I don't own you. You can go off on your own at any time and seek your fortune. There, does that make you feel better?"

Ed frowned. He wanted to punch Mustang in the face, knew he could not, then he wanted to cross his arms, but there being only one, he put his hand behind his neck and scowled.

"Good. We have another project I need your help with. Let's make the most of your skill with mineral elements, yes? Dublith has some lead mines I want to investigate. It also so happens that the Inquisitor and his army are headed in that direction. That's where we go next. We leave tomorrow."

"That's it? I thought we were supposed to recruit more alchemists."

"It didn't work out." Mustang rolled up his map. "We don't have time to linger in this town anymore, the Inquisitor's moving on and we have to follow him." Ed felt himself wilt. "What is it? Are you tired?"

Ed scowled; the solicitous question reminded him of how things had been when he and Al had first joined the outlaws. When he was a _child_ and weak. "No, I'm not tired. Fuck, I'm just…frustrated we didn't get any new alchemists, that's all."

Mustang came around the table and leaned back, crossing his arms. "Sometimes missions fail. Is that all that's bothering you?"

"No, dammit, why are you always asking me if there's something more—"

"—because you're always standing there like you have something else to say—"

"Forget it!" Ed turned and took his leave.

"You're lucky you earn your keep around here, Elric," said Mustang to his retreating back.

**

"You'll make a fool of me yet," Roy Mustang muttered to himself as he watched

Edward Elric leave the tower, clinging to the wall of the curved stairwell as he left. Part of him still felt that the Elric brothers, especially Edward, were destined to be his greatest mistake. Some of the men had questioned his wisdom, at first, in recruiting them. They had made a deal with the devil, and that devil was himself. Sometimes he felt guilty about his empty promise to feed them information on human transmutation, their apparent obsession; he had no knowledge of it himself and considered it the darkest corner of alchemic practice. It was exactly the kind of thing that engendered fear and hatred against alchemists. They wouldn't speak about what they had done to get themselves in their current states, but it was obvious to Mustang that they wouldn't stop in their quest to find a way to reverse their mistake. It seemed logical to him that he might harness that drive to his own purposes. He also suspected that someday they might wander away from him to follow their quest. It seemed less likely when they were younger but now that Edward was 16…he was noticing a lot of things about Edward lately. He wasn't tall and probably would never be, but he had finally begun to leave childhood. The more subtle things, his neck was less scrawny, his jaw suddenly stronger, his whole presence somehow more substantial, he couldn't explain it to himself, and even less if someone had noticed or asked. He had to be careful. Edward wasn't the child he once was, he didn't look up to him anymore. He felt a certain but inexplicable sense of loss on that account. How strange.

The boy was lonely, too, he could see it in his eyes, even though he was young and half-formed, even though he was wild and had the manner of a heathen raised in a cave, even though…in some ways he had come to think of the Elrics as his, but lately he was getting the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to be proven wrong. They were the oddest addition to his collection, to be sure, too young and not in the slightest seasoned for battle. He'd released other children, even alchemists, that he'd liberated from the Inquisitor, including those young brothers they found that same day in Rizenbul, but something told him that the Elrics were different, boys that they were. Alphonse was a child's soul bound to armor, tragic and terrifying at the same time. Having a transmuted soul as part of his retinue was privately a source of pride for himself, not to mention that he was fascinated by the alchemy required—or that Alphonse was strong and handy in a fight.

The boys did not seem quite able to articulate how they had managed the soul binding--or why--aside from confessing that it was a 'mistake.' If it was a mistake, it was the most impressive mistake he had ever seen.

As for Edward, once he realized that he had actually performed a human transmutation, Roy had put aside his misgivings about being responsible for a frail, crippled child. The others had protested that he would be a liability, but Edward had quickly proven himself anything but. He had a strong grasp of how to manipulate earth elements, particularly metals, perfect for weaponry and land-based offense. He and his brother ably demonstrated their potential to their fellow alchemists, impressing all. The real challenge had been to train Edward up physically; the monks had coddled him and let him go soft, no doubt aiming to keep him chained to the monastery to garden herbs and pray for the rest of his life, but Edward was eager and grew stronger quickly. The monastery was no sort of life for a boy like Edward, and Mustang personally took credit for saving him from it. Tenacious, brilliant, and infuriatingly stubborn, Mustang considered him and his brother an indispensible asset to his group.

Today he was disappointed that Edward had not been able to convince their errant alchemist, he was usually quite skilled at that sort of thing. But, if force it must be, so be it. He had no doubt that Armstrong and Alphonse would successfully bring the runaway to him tonight. In the mean time, he told Hawkeye and Havoc to have the troop prepare to move on toward Dublith the following day.

He moved to the window and looked out over Aquaroia. A not unpleasant town with many entertainments, and he didn't have to lay low if he went out in discreet disguise, the town was gambling pits and brothels as far as the eye could see. The King had not much hold here and the Inquisition, none. The perfect hideout, and where he always came when the band needed some rest. Back to work now, now that he knew the Inquisitor's next move.

He heard footsteps on the stairs approaching, and by the even, quick stride, he knew it was not Elric back for more berating, or Alphonse in his clinking armor. He smiled as his friend emerged, he knew him even through the cowl that hung low over his face. He moved toward him for a friendly embrace.

"My friend," he said. "We are hungry for news."

Maes Hughes pulled the cowl down over his shoulders and regarded Mustang through his small round spectacles, green eyes calculating.

"You're about to move on, I can tell already. So much for staying and catching up." Hughes sighed and moved to sit in the chair as Mustang gestured to it. Mustang leaned against the table and poured out two cups of honey wine.

"We're off in the direction of Dublith, thanks to your information, I think we'll be able to catch up with the Inquisitor there." Mustang fingered the base of the cup for a moment before taking a swig of the sweet, thick wine.

Hughes nodded and lifted his own cup. "He's been very busy, the terror has been stepped up. In Central the Inquisitor has precipitated the disposal of no less than fifteen of the King's ministers and nobles."

"The King seems to feed that fire quite readily," Mustang observed.

"He's a soul-less man, the perfect partner for the Inquisitor. He believes that removing all dissent only cements his power. The nobles complain that unifying the Palatines under Bradley was a mistake, there is no check to his power now." Hughes finished his drink and put the cup down. "I am sickened by what I have to witness in court. Every day someone else is defamed and destroyed by the Inquisitor. He strings them up in the center of town and flogs them until they confess, then he has his soldiers drag out their entrails. The crowds come to cheer it on. It's revolting."

Mustang nodded, he'd witnessed similar atrocities with his own eyes.

"It's only getting worse. The people are both in terror and bloodthirsty, at the same time, a dangerous combination. The Inquisitor has it all planned out, too. He wants to be able to use them to cause riots, if necessary, that would allow him to kill even more innocent people. I heard him say this with my own ears."

"He confides in you now, does he?" Roy raised his eyebrows.

"He doesn't even know my name," sniffed Hughes. "You think I'm a fool? A good spy knows how not to be seen. I confine my visible presence in the palace to the council chambers."

"Yes, well, he knows mine." Roy poured them both another cup.

"Oh, how he hates you," grinned Hughes, raising his cup to him in a mock toast. "Those wanted posters I keep seeing are a poor likeness, by the way. They don't capture your dashing good looks at all."

Roy allowed himself a smile at his old friend. "They don't look a bit like me....they make me look like a Xingian demon, they stopped just short of the horns."

"Too bad...that would have thrown the populace," Hughes joked as he finished his cup. "At least you can walk around this cess-pit without anyone recognizing you."

"Yes...I've been out for a few rambles." Roy glanced out the window. The sun was beginning to set and dusk was spreading over the city. Soon the stars would be sparkling in the city's many canals, and it would be beautiful.

"...a soldier's is a lonely life, hmm?" said Hughes sympathetically.

Roy tipped his head to the side in reluctant acknowledgement. "Alone but never by myself." Hell, he rarely had enough privacy to even satisfy himself...it could be frustrating.

"No chance for a sweetheart in the life you have chosen, I suppose," Hughes said. "But a man has his needs."

Roy shifted uncomfortably. "So, how is your family?"

"They're well, thank you." Hughes played with his cup, spinning it on the uneven surface of the table. "I hate being away from them in times like these, or I'd join up with you."

"No, you know your information from the council is invaluable to us."

On that cue, Hughes removed a scroll of paper from his robe and handed it to Roy.

"A copy of the map the King and the Inquisitor have been creating...it seems the King has designs on Ishbal, Creta and even Xing."

Roy frowned. "The Ishballans are one thing, they're not militarized, and the Cretans are disorganized. But Xing! They're mad."

"The Inquisitor has been telling the King that he will go down as the greatest monarch in history, if he can bring the Faith to all the world, bring the heathens into the Church. Reuniting the Palatinates has only whetted his appetite. He has designs on becoming Emperor."

Roy snorted. "Emperor of what?"

"Of the world, I suppose." Hughes spun his cup again, and the two of them watched it spin like a top for some moments before it finally fell upon its side.

"There won't be much left of the world once they get through with it," Roy frowned. "Our mission grows ever more urgent."

He snapped his fingers and brought a tiny flame to light a candle in the darkening room.

**************

Ed was quartered in one of the rooms on the ground floor of the inn, near the room where food and drink were served and people were up at all hours drinking and singing and jangling whores on their knees. The larger part of their company were staying outside of town, in their tents, but the few who were closest to Mustang and who had business in town were being quartered here. After having failed at today's mission, Ed had some free time to spend working on his arrays and studying some of the few alchemy books they had managed to acquire over the past three years, from fellow alchemists and from libraries they'd plundered. Alphonse and Armstrong were out gathering up the deserter, and Ed listened for their arrival with one ear as he bent over the texts on his straw bed. He was distracted; Al could take care of himself, but he always did worry when he was off doing something without him there to watch over him.

He chewed at some bread and apples while he read. It was dark out now and he lit a candle, taking it to the window to peer outside the rippled, thick glass before returning to the bed. His leg hurt; he sat down and unstrapped the wooden prosthesis, cursing it as it hit the floor. He had alchemized it to be as like his real leg as possible, but there was nothing alchemy could do to make it comfortable, despite his constantly replacing the cotton and leather pads he attached to alleviate the friction and pressure on his stump. It was a constant source of pain, heavy and clumsy and inconvenient, and he would hate it even more if he didn't have Al's presence to remind him that there were worse losses than his own. His arm was even more sorely missed, it affected his alchemy, he was sure of it, and that was the worst part. It was difficult for him to get on the ground and hold himself up while he drew arrays, he was often in the most inconvenient positions, flung chest-down on the dirt. He couldn't even fashion a workable leg with a knee that bent, and daydreamed frequently of the wonderful Rockbell automail.

This was why he never got to go on missions like the one Al was on right now. He was too easy to push over, and the only way he could make a quick getaway was if someone scooped him up and carried him like a child. He grit his teeth as he forced himself back to studying the arrays. These weren't for battle, these were for the Gate. The only thing that mattered was the Gate, and how to safely summon it, and how to get Al's body back from it, and that was all. Even leaving this time had begun to pale in purpose…maybe he could live here, he was doing it, if he had to, as long as he could fix Al. Getting his own limbs back seemed selfish and childish now, even though Al still spoke of it. It didn't matter. He was used to it now.

Finally, when he was starting to get drowsy, the door opened and Al said, "We have him, come upstairs!"

*************

Alphonse was the one who tended to voice the objections, when they were alone, in the dark of night. The taking of the deserter had gone without incident or anyone getting harmed, but it still tended to rub him the wrong way. He sat with his back against his brother's pallet, inhabiting his artificial shell with the stillness that came with night. He had no physical need to be active; his drives were entirely intellectualized, even his emotion driven by his soul and not his body. Despite the time that had passed, he was still not at peace with it, and almost certainly felt disembodied and bitter, if left alone too long. He could become catatonic if he wasn't interacting with someone. If it weren't for Edward, he would have sought to free his soul a long time ago.

His brother shifted a little in the bed, Al could perceive, and he turned around to look at him. He was lying on his side, rough blanket pulled up to his neck, his eyes shining in the dark.

Ed sighed. "I'm sorry you had to do that."

"It wasn't so bad," Al said. "No one got hurt." Still, the man had sworn and cursed them for taking him against his will, had protested bitterly that he had no interest in being part of their mission. "He doesn't want Mustang telling him what to do anymore, he said."

"Yeah, I heard him." Ed had also gone upstairs to hear Mustang try to persuade the runner in that way of his. He wasn't cruel or threatening, he used reason. Most alchemists who weren't deranged usually saw the light. The man was stubborn, but in the end, Mustang had convinced him, or so it seemed. It occurred to Al that he might just be pretending to comply, and when they moved on he would take his chance and slip away back to his old life. He wouldn't blame him, really. He knew he and Ed wouldn't be here either, if they had had other options.

"I just worry," Al began. They had had this conversation many times before, but he never felt finished with it. "Are we doing the right thing, doing this? All this violence."

Ed shifted a little, again, but Al kept his eyes on the moon he could see from the window, through the thick, rippled glass. It looked less than perfectly circular through the distorting glass, more of a blob than a sphere.

"I know," Ed said at length. Al knew that his eyes were staring across the tiny room to the window too. They often spoke about the moon and the sky, how it looked the same as it did from their real home, except the night sky was darker, the stars more dazzling. "But I have to believe that this is right...what's happening now, this is what leads to alchemy being accepted in the future, this is how history is supposed to go, and we're helping."

"You didn't pay that much attention in history class," Al pointed out. "It's another hundred years before the true Enlightenment."

"Still, this is part of it," Ed said. "It doesn't fail...we don't fail, right?"

His brother was silent for a while and Al waited to hear him in sleep, that familiar slowing of breath, that helped his active mind to slip into a kind of fugue state that passed for sleep for himself. Ed remained awake though.

"I'm sorry it's taking so long," Ed finally said. "I'm really sorry...but we'll get there."

Al knew what he was referring to. The apology came frequently enough.

"I know." Al wasn't sure that he did know. He knew that his brother was forever studying whatever rare books they could get their hands on, and grilling their fellow alchemists for information on how to summon a gate, but the fear surrounding the use of human transmutation had not helped much on that front. Their fellow alchemists, those who had become soldiers in Mustang's rebel army, were a pragmatic lot. The outliers--those who practiced their forbidden art on the fringe--were too recalcitrant to join them.

Those failures--like Tucker, who had a cellar full of dead chimeras in his house--were better left behind. In his case, Mustang had made the ruthless decision that alchemists like Tucker were a liability. They were the ones who did the things that people feared and decried as perversions of nature. Mustang himself had burned his house to the ground and left him screaming after them for revenge. Al remembered Tucker's house collapsing as they left him behind. He wasn't sorry...but he was.

This wasn't the life he had chosen, and it wasn't the life he had expected. It wasn't even the life he was born to. It was his excuse when he did things he didn't really agree with. He did this because he believed in the cause, mostly, and because his brother needed the protection and direction of the outlaws—there was no other way they could make money to eat. and Ed had to be fed. Despite what he liked to believe he was not self-sufficient. Al tried not to feel resentment, and mostly he didn't, at all he did for Ed, from carrying him around to washing his clothes in the river. Ed pretended that he looked after Al, and he did, in a way, but Al knew, Ed could not live without him.

So when his brother asked for his indulgence, his patience, he could only think, You have all of me, you took everything back, everything, except this one piece of me. He owed Edward both his life, and his death.

When he heard the priests rant about the state of people's souls, his own wavered and shuddered. After all, it was all he had.

As often happened, that "I know" was the last thing that passed between him and his brother that night. Edward fell asleep, and Alphonse watched him.

***

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

They were only half way through the week-long journey to Dublith when they met the Inquisitor and his Army of the Godfearing, or whatever they were calling themselves this month. Ed was cursing the horse on which he had been sitting for no less than six hours, with a couple of short breaks. He was tired, it wasn't easy sitting a horse with one arm and one leg. He had a leather strap around his waist for safety, so he wouldn't slide off, but his ass hurt like hell and the hair on the horse's flanks chafed his skin through his clothes. The other traveling option, being carried in Al's arms, was more comfortable but less appealing, it made him feel like a child and he avoided it whenever possible. At least sitting on a horse he was like a proper outlaw soldier. He tried to sit up straight but his back ached like a bitch. He wasn't born to ride a horse, that was for certain. His spine curved over the front of the saddle again and he tried to find a comfortable way to sit. He swore to himself for a while before his nose caught the scent of smoke, warm and almost enticing in the chilly spring air. He looked up to see great plumes and bellows of it moving menacingly on the horizon.

The riders at the front of the group were already moving faster, leaving him behind. He clicked his tongue to get the horse to run, but of course he had been given the gentlest horse. She didn't like to run, so she was assigned to him, the weakest rider. The horse at least began to trot and Alphonse ran beside him. They followed the road to the top of a hill, and then worked their way around the crowd to get a view of what was going on in the valley below. The group fell back a bit, splitting up and heading into the woods to their right. Ed's stomach twisted; he figured they had met their quarry already. Everyone was being as quiet as they could as their party melted into the forest. Mustang, blue cape flying, led the charge into the screen of trees so they could plan their next move. Once in the woods, Mustang's voice rang out.

"It's the Inquisitor, and he is about to commit his crimes. By the look of it there isn't much time to waste. I figure there are about five hundred troops with him. We can take them, and free the prisoners."

The instructions rippled through the crowd so those in the back could hear.

"I'll lead the charge from the top. Kimbley up front, the rest of you alchemist bring up the rear, you know what to do. Soldiers, deal with the enemy who break off to fight."

The Crimson was at the head of the pack, preening himself. Ed knew that he was one of the few who loved to fight for the kill, which was why Mustang put him up front. He didn't care about science or saving the innocents. He just liked to use his destructive alchemy and to kill as many people as possible. He was insane, and dangerous. Ed had dared to ask Mustang why he left him alive. Mustang had said, "Because he's insane and dangerous, and, unfortunately, that's handy in a fight."

Mustang tugged on his gloves, then waved his arm. A cry went out through the ranks, one that always excited Ed despite himself. He watched as they began to pour past him. He and Al would bring up the rear, as they always did, and move the ground under the feet of the enemy.

The Inquisitor had set his stage outside a small town. Ed wondered why he hadn't used the town square; there were not many people on the dock today. Less than ten, from what he could tell, by the leavings of rope and chain that were already trampled into the mud in the chaos of battle. By the time he drew close enough, the others had set them free, and the prisoners had run for their lives. The Inquisitor hadn't yet made his kill, but he had fled with his guard as the outlaws attacked. He had eluded them no less than seven times, as if he were protected by luck, Ed thought. He hardly deserved to live, more proof to Ed that there was either no god, or if there was, he was a bastard. Ed and Al received orders through the chaotic chain of command to help cut off two groups of the Inquisitor's soldiers who were engaging their men in a fierce fight. Al took Ed off his horse, they raced to the edge of one skirmish and quickly but precisely prepared an array that would surround the soldiers, and, preferably, destroy them. That second part was less to Ed's liking, but he reminded himself that if the Inquisitor's soldiers lived to fight another day, it would be at the expense of the peace and safety of innocent people.

When the array was complete, he and Al shouted together for their men to fall back, and they watched their men pass the message from one to the other as they peeled away, Havoc wending through the fighters shouting at them to fall back, Armstrong also taking up the cry. They watched as the group was reduced to the Inquisitor's men, with their crimson capes and filthy white tunics, and their tinny swords and shields with the sign of the cross. They took a moment to cheer their own victory—their misapprehension-- before Ed and Al activated their array, sending up a wall of earth that crashed over them like a wave. Armstrong stepped up and finished the project by flattening it down, and that was it: they were swallowed by the ground, as if they had never been there. Armstrong surveyed their work for a moment with that damned wistful look, as if he regretted what had to be done, before praising them and leading the way to help the other group of fighters.

It proved to be more difficult to seal off the other group; the battle was more spread out and many were fighting hand to hand. Ed watched this with his own brand of wistfulness; he wished that he could be fighting that like, instead of sidelined. He always tried to stop and admire the work of fellow alchemists. The Crimson was there blowing up every thing he could touch, but Mustang's fighting style always earned Ed's admiration. He worked to isolate the enemy by breaking up skirmishes and pushing the enemy back with a wall of fire. Ed and Al had once asked him why he didn't just burn everyone to a crisp, but Mustang was mindful that burning to death was a bad way to go. He reminded them that death by fire was one of the Inquisitor's most terrible weapons, and he hated to do the same. He reasoned that it was more humane to be drowned in dirt, and Ed needed no further reminder that this was a brutal world.

Some of their men had lost or damaged their weapons and Ed was busy at work repairing swords and pulling makeshift staffs from the ground while Al prepared the arrays for burying this part of the Inquisitor's army. When they were ready, the cry went through the ranks once again as their men fell back.

They dug deep into the forest that night, making a shallow camp that could be pulled at a moment's notice, as they traditionally did after a skirmish with the King's or the Inquisitor's men. Sometimes their adversaries came looking for them, but as their numbers increased, this had become less frequent. They were finally a force to be reckoned with, and feared. Ed thought that this was definitely a good thing, and Mustang seemed to think so too. He was pleased with the day's work; they had probably taken out four hundred of the Inquisitor's men.

**

The next two days were uneventful. They traveled along roads that were less likely to find traffic. The less they were seen on their way to Dublith the better. It was too much to hope that the Inquisitor would be taken by surprise, but it always did help to leave their exact position obscured. The Inquisitor had scouts and spies too, of course, but they did their best to avoid or trick them.

**

They pressed on at dawn, the final day's journey to Dublith. Alphonse watched his brother carefully, as he always did. Ed would always be his big brother, but he still needed looking out for now. He also watched the land as it went by, as he walked it, forever amazed at the world that was the same and yet so different from the one he had known. He was fully aware that they had spent five years here now, that much of his life, a full third of it, had been spent here. If they stayed another 10, he would come to call this home. He often played this game with himself...once they were here one year, two, five, ten, when would it become home? When would they leave their old lives behind? Would he ever be able to throw off the restlessness that came with his current state, the desire to be as he once was? Or did time change that, make one accept one's fate? He was young, and didn't know.

They had spent a year in Dublith after their mother died, being trained in alchemy by a master alchemist. They had learned a lot, and they knew plenty of things that they were able to teach their fellow alchemists here, even while they learned some lost arts from them. Izumi Curtis was a powerful alchemist, respected. Where they were now, when they were, women alchemists were as rare as female archers like Riza Hawkeye. Perhaps he should not have been surprised, then, when on the road right before the town's gate, they saw a small group of soldiers surrounding a woman. She was pushed to the ground and covered with dust, as if they had been kicking or beating her, but she was not beaten, struggling to stand up as they held their spears at her.

Mustang approached and questioned one of the men. They were part of the Inquisitor's army, but there were only six of them.

"What's going on here?" he asked from atop his tall, black horse.

"This woman is a witch, we need to take her to the Inquisitor."

Mustang pulled his horse back a little and sat higher in his seat. "Let her go and we'll let you live."

The soldier seemed nonplussed. "We can't let her go. She came upon us and threatened to turn us into swine. She's a witch."

"Let her go. I'll be responsible for her. If she turns me into a swine, I'll take her head off."

The guard shook his head. "There must be a trial."

Mustang smirked. "A trial, fair and orderly and presided over by the Lord God himself, I presume?"

"Of course." The soldier smirked back. An unbeliever in holy clothing.

"Come with us, leave this filthy work to the stupid sheep who have sold their souls to the Inquisitor."

"How's the pay?" asked the soldier. He shifted on his feet and spit a bit of chewed hay onto the ground. The other soldiers made the circle around the woman tighter, but she was standing now, and patting dust and grit from her clothes.

Mustang sat taller in his saddle. "No regular pay but we feed ourselves well enough."

"You're those outlaws," observed the soldier lazily. "You plunder monasteries and villages, that's what you do."

"We take only from the king, the church, and the rich," Mustang stated.

Al knew that this was only as true as they wanted it to be. They tried to take only from the king, the church and the rich...but sometimes things got muddled. And sometimes the band got hungry, and there was poor hunting in the forest. There were no rules, but it was nice to pretend that there were.

"Why do you hate the Inquisitor so much?" the soldier asked, pure curiosity. His fellows gathered closer to hear the conversation, although two of the men grabbed the witch by either arm, as they all drew forward to see the storied outlaws, and hear their claims. There was no danger that they would attack them, Ed knew; it was 6 against 200 if they did.

Mustang's mouth twitched as if he were about to smile. He could speak for hours on how much he hated the Inquisitor.

"Let's just say, he owes me some money," said Mustang. "But I'll take this accused witch for now."

The soldier smiled at Mustang's quip but kept his spear in hand, firm against the ground, and stayed in place.

"Well, you'll owe me money too I'll be bound, if I left the king's service," he said. "I have a family to support."

Mustang nodded and turned his hand over graciously. "All the same I thank you for considering my offer. It always stands. We are happy to accept true soldiers who have lost their faith with the Inquisitor. In the mean time, please, take this as a token." Mustang reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew a silver coin. He held out it to the soldier. The man looked at it for only a moment before taking it.

Mustang turned his horse and led the group away down the road. Ed stayed close to him, since they were riding slowly, and Al walked by Ed's side.

"We're not going to take her? There's only six of them!" he said to Mustang. He glanced back at the pyre for one last sorrowful look at the doomed witch. What he saw instead was an empty pyre and six bored-looking soldiers.

Mustang turned and smiled at Ed as Armstrong rode up with the stunned woman sitting in front of him in the saddle. He fell back a bit and Ed watched Mustang again.

"They just let us take her. Why?"

"Don't you see, the Inquisitor's ranks are not solid. That lot were bored and disgusted, all they want is their piece of silver. Some of them expect heaven, but I'll wager that many of them are not believers."

"So?" Ed asked. "The silver seems to keep them loyal enough."

Mustang gave Ed another sideways look and a sly smile. "If we had gold, we could have gotten them to come with us."

"And where are we going to get enough gold to pay an army?"

"Alchemy," said Mustang simply. "There are lead mines in the hills around Dublith."

"But...isn't that against the law?"

Mustang gave him a funny look. "Against what law? Using alchemy of any kind is against the law."

"Right...." Ed lowered his face and glanced at Al. Al watched the exchange between Mustang and Ed, intrigued by the twitch of Ed's hand on the reigns, and the uneasy way his eyes kept slipping to the side as if to avoid Mustang's gaze. Al saw Mustang give Ed another quick, slightly puzzled glance before pulling ahead.

The witch. Her face was fine-boned and she had round breasts and hips and full lips, a beautiful woman, not a maid and on the other side of young. Thirty years, at least, maybe more. Her hair was raven and at present unraveled, hanging down her back, in disarray from being manhandled by the soldiers. She was wearing a dark woolen skirt and a now-filthy yellow blouse, her legs clad in blue stockings no doubt torn in her fight with the soldiers of God. She sat on the floor of Mustang's tent, tearing into a hunk of stale bread and a piece of venison they had just cooked in their camp in the woods outside Dublith. They saw the town in the valley below before they had stopped for the night. Tomorrow, they would investigate the mine and see what lead they could take away.

Hawkeye stood at the flap of the tent, frequently looking outside to make sure all was quiet. They were dangerously close to the town, really, and the Inquisitor and his men were camped openly on the edge of it. They had to keep their fires low and stay deep in the woods, although the Inquisitor's army was so depleted from the most recent battle that it was doubtful they would come after them. It would take the Inquisitor weeks to get new troops to replace the ones they had swallowed up.

The witch was quiet. She ate, then she accepted a cup of wine, all the while locked up tight inside herself, but she was strangely smug and serene for someone who had come that close to being burned at the stake. He tried to exude calm and kindness to her, to assuage any fears she might have, so that when he asked her about her alchemic skills, she would be forthcoming.

He got down on the ground facing her and took a drink from his wineskin. He held it out to her, offering to refill her cup. She held it up with her thin, white arm, and he saw that she was still trembling. Still, she met his eyes with her dark ones as he poured.

"So," he said. "How did they get their hands on you?"

She downed the wine, greedily this time, and put down the cup. "I was taken on the road, making my way home," she said. "I promised to turn them into pigs, as they said. It was not an idle threat."

Mustang tried to hide his disappointment. "Then you're not an alchemist?"

"Oh, I'm an alchemist," she said. She held her head up proudly now. "The best, in fact."

Mustang saw her eyes glitter. She was proud. He would have to flatter her.

"What were you trying to do?"

"Get close enough to the Inquisitor to turn him into a goat," she said.

"That's witchcraft, not alchemy."

"It's alchemy the way I do it," she said haughtily. She held up her cup again.

"You make chimeras." The very way he said it, he knew, conveyed his disapproval. That was the kind of alchemy that had turned the Church against them, and against science.

"I am adept," she said. "My husband and I are not interested in limiting ourselves to what is considered safe alchemy." Her face took on a shadowed look as she placed the cup on the floor beside her.

"Where is your husband?"

"He should be on his way back to town now, he has been in Central this month past. I expect him any time now."

"He would have found you dead if we hadn't come along."

She shrugged. "I don't think so."

Mustang raised an eyebrow. "How is that?"

She shrugged again, and smirked. "I told you I am a master alchemist. I was going to get away, and kill each and every one of those idiot soldiers in the process...it was their lives you saved today, not mine."

"You didn't look like you were about to get away." But now that he thought of it, she hadn't seemed desperate either, hadn't even asked them for help. He had put that down to shock but now he wasn't so sure.

"I was biding my time. I wanted it to be dramatic." She gave him a penetrating look, and he felt obliged to let her hold his eyes for a moment. That was it, the moment he saw that she was possibly mad, but most certainly, she was not lying about her skill, or her belief in it.

"I see." Mustang put down the wineskin. "So, do you think you'd be interested in helping us put an end to the Inquisition?"

"Perhaps," she said. "What's in it for me?"

Mustang blinked. "For you? The freedom to practice alchemy without the fear of being taken for a witch and burned at the stake. The freedom to pursue enlightenment and science, to use alchemy for the common good, to see our civilization freed from the bonds of terror and oppression. Is that not enough?"

She smiled again, and he saw that light in her eye. "I can practice alchemy whenever I please." She waved her hand dismissively.

So, she was one of those. Either she would take convincing, or they would have to leave her to do whatever damage to their cause she might do on her own. And she had a husband, as well, who was likely as adept as she was.

"I don't want to go running all over the countryside pursuing that idiotic Inquisitor. I have my own projects to concentrate on."

"Such as?" asked Mustang. "I'm always interested in hearing what fellow alchemists are working on."

"And what is your specialty then?"

"Fire," he said.

She sniffed. "A battle technique, nothing more."

Mustang sought to hide that he had taken offense at her dismissiveness. "We have several talented alchemists with us. I'm sure you would find their work interesting. You didn't answer my question."

"Human transmutation," she said. She fussed with her plain, bedraggled clothes as if they were finery now, arranging her skirt around her knees.

"I see." He looked at her for a moment. "We'll probably stay here for a few days. We are looking at the mines." He imagined that she'd figure out what they wanted with those easily enough and didn't explain further. "I'll let you go, but I hope you'll consider our offer. Perhaps I'll pay you a visit before we leave?"

She regarded him with that haughty expression, as if she were doing him a favor by just talking to him. "You can come by my house if you like. It's all the same to me."

He rose from the floor as she did, and they both dusted themselves off.

"Where might we find you?"

"Our house is on the eastern edge of town, just walk down the lane past the Wild Goose Inn."

Mustang nodded and bowed slightly to the woman.

"I'm embarrassed to say, I believe I've forgotten to ask your name, my lady."

"Dante," she said. She nodded to him in slight deference, and then she left.

He kept the news close for some hours, mulling over whether he should share it with the Elrics. He imagined he would get excited, and he liked seeing his eyes light up. Edward always grew an inch or two, straightened his spine, when presented with good news, or a challenge. He liked to see that, had liked to since he had first known him, when he had still been just a boy.

Still smarting from the beating his troops had taken in the road to Dublith, the Inquisitor's doings in town were low key this time. Breda, Fuery, and a few others had gone down into the town to scout it out. The Inquisitor had installed himself in Dublith's church but he was apparently, for now, sticking to administrative business. Mustang was pleased that their last skirmish had proved so decisive. Clearly the Inquisitor was rattled, his troops depleted, and his confidence at an ebb. There was no word of one of his "shows", at least for now, although a couple of poor souls were being held in Dublith's jail, awaiting some kind of judgment. That was all there was to report.

Still, to be on the safe side, Mustang brought only a small group with him to visit the lead mines in the nearby hills. Armstrong, Edward Elric, Basque Gran; the alchemists who were adept with metal elements. He would take Havoc and Hawkeye as guard. They went in disguise as far as they could manage; one good thing about being unofficial, they had no sigils or colors to give them away. None of them had many possessions, but Mustang put on his "best" clothes, and shaved. Dead giveaways, like Alphonse Elric in his armor, and Most Wanted Kimbley were left behind.

The mines were about four miles into the hills. Mustang had information that there were four, two owned by the Crown, and two independently held. Scouts Breda and Fuery had determined the day before which were privately owned, and the small group avoided those heavily guarded by the king's men, steering toward the first of the two private mines. He always maintained an air of confidence for his men--he was their leader and that was required of him--but he was a bit nervous. He could feel perspiration trickle down from his scalp and he swatted it away. This was one of his boldest moves and could easily backfire if they weren't careful. He touched the purse at his belt, bolstered by its weight. This was what he had been saving much of their plunder for, although he hadn't known it for many months. He most certainly was not in this for money, but he had come to realize that not everyone was as idealistic as he was. To swell their ranks, and to bribe the Inquisitor's soldiers, they needed gold, and lots of it. He knew the transmutation for gold was unstable and would last only a matter of weeks, but it was the best shot they had if they were going to assassinate the Inquisitor. Only gold would get them the support they needed.

It would end here, in Dublith. Why not? While the Inquisitor waited for reinforcements to arrive, Mustang and his crew would win over the town, and the few soldiers left to the Inquisitor. Mustang had already decided, they would hang him in the town's handsome square, and let the crows eat his eyes, and everyone would see he was just a man, and not a hand of god.

As they approached Forester's mine they passed through men rinsing and weighing the lead that had been pulled from the earth. They tethered their horses at the end of the path that led to the mouth of the mine, scaffolded with wooden beams, and the small, squat wooden building beside it. Lord Forester would not be there--the scouts had already established that he was at his estate near Central--but he would have to deal with whoever was in charge. His men waited with the horses while Mustang, Edward and Havoc went forward, Hawkeye standing beside the rest of the group with her bow discreetly at the ready. She was by far his best shooter, but bringing a woman to do business always raised eyebrows and questions. She kept the hood of her woolen cape up, and waited, nodding to him curtly as he turned and made his way to the hutch.

The sharp, businesslike man who ran the concern as the Lord's proxy was short on hospitality, not even offering them water or tea, only rose from behind his desk and immediately asked him what he wanted.

"I am commissioned to purchase lead for a master armorer," was Mustang's curt, rehearsed reply. "One of his apprentices is here to assess its strength and purity."

Edward examined the lead, and Mustang felt a bit of apprehension as the boy pretended to not be an alchemist. He managed, and pronounced it pure enough to be workable.

The price the proxy set was high, and Mustang haggled the price down only a little before letting it lie, not wanting to seem too eager, nor wanting to irritate the man. They set a deal for two hundredweight of lead, and Mustang paid, cash on the barrel. The proxy asked two of his men to bring it to their horses, and the lead was distributed in sacks and slung over the saddles of each rider. Armstrong carried an extra bag on his lap. The weight slowed their horses so that they could not even gallop, and Mustang felt his nerves jangle as they made their way back to their camp in the forest, taking a circuitous route so as to shake any suspicion of where they might be going.

Back at camp, Ed and Al were given first crack at making the gold. Al was pleased for something useful to do, and worked eagerly on the array they would use for the transmutation. Mustang paced around them, and Al could tell that he was anxious. This was an important project, and again, Al was pleased that it was not violent. Making gold from lead was illegal and it was a cheat; at the same time, if it would help keep the violence at bay, as Mustang promised, he was all for it. His brother knelt on the ground, putting the finishing touches on the array.

"All right...ready," he said. "Let's give it a try."

Mustang himself placed a lump of lead in the center of the array, as the others gathered around. Almost everyone was watching, and Al felt a surge of anxiety that they do a good job. Although they made themselves useful, he always nursed an anxiety that he and Ed were a burden on the group, because they were young. Things had changed over the past three years, but he still remembered how it had been when they had first been brought on. Everyone had complained bitterly, and they had had to work hard to prove themselves. They had done so a hundred times over, but it still never felt like enough. They weren't one of them, they were different. Even if nobody said so anymore, they never quite belonged.

"Remember," said Mustang, repeating his instructions for the tenth time that afternoon. "I want coin, just like this one." He pointed at the gold piece that lay in the dirt beside Ed's knee. "Same size, same markings. If it looks counterfeit, we're in even deeper trouble than ever."

Ed nodded, then looked at Al, and they both leaned forward and activated the array. Within a minute, they had a pile of gold coin. Mustang leaned forward and plucked one up, examining it closely.

He smiled.

"Perfect," he said. "Do all of it."

There was a substantial pile of the gray substance awaiting transmutation, a small, sullen, lumpy mountain of it. It would take hours to do it all.

Al didn't get tired, of course, but Edward did. Nearing the end of their project, it was growing dark and cool, and Al could see his brother's face in the firelight, his eyes shadowed and waning with the day.

"Let me finish," said Al. The crowd of observers had also dispersed, bored with the show after the first quarter hour. "You're getting exhausted."

Ed looked at him and sighed, sat back on his bottom. He got sore, Al knew, and tired easily. It wasn't easy walking around on that wooden leg. Ed had taken it off to work on the ground, but channeling the alchemy through a single arm took twice as much concentration of energy, and he was obviously worn out.

"You need me...you know I'm better at the details," Ed said. And it was true, the detail on the design was Ed's work, mostly. "Let's just finish."

When they were finally through, Mustang came out to instruct his men on how to count it into bags and sacks. There were piles of gold, but it was all flash, no substance. In a few weeks' time it would just be lead again, everyone knew. Still, Al noticed that the men handled the coins with reverence, turning them over in their fingers. Most of them had never touched a gold coin in their lives.

"Nice work, boys," Mustang said. "Come into my tent for a drink before bed, you've earned it."

It was time to make good on a deal he wasn't sure he had ever really planned to make good on. While he liked to think of himself as a man of his word, Roy Mustang still wasn't sure that giving the Elric brothers a nudge in this particular direction was a very good idea. On the one hand, he had made a contract...and on the other hand, Dante and alchemists like her were dangerous, and not only to themselves. The boys had worked hard, though, and for three years he had seen them grow in skill and confidence. All the while, he knew, they were just biding their time, that their dedication to the group only went so far as their own quest, however far they should seek to take it, and when. He had hoped that they would want to stay with them for as long as this took, but fighting the social order was proving to be a long and daunting task. What he had asked of those children three years ago, he had gotten, and more. He owed them this.

He had no chairs to offer them, only the patched, dusty blankets on the floor of his tent. He poured Edward a cup of wine from the same skin from which he had served the purported witch the day before. Edward had taken off his leg and was using his crutch, as he had for some time when he and Alphonse had first joined them. He fairly collapsed onto the floor, flinging the crutch down beside him, and grabbed artlessly at the cup of wine. He made a childish face as he drank it--it was of poor quality and sour--reminding Mustang of how young he really still was. The second cup he had almost poured for Alphonse sat empty in his hand, also reminding him of the brothers' bizarre predicament. He poured it for himself instead and drank it down.

"So what's this special treatment for?" asked Edward. "What did we do to earn an invitation to the palace?"

"I wanted to thank you for your hard work today," said Mustang.

"You already did, outside," Edward pointed out. He had a habit of doing that, a sometimes unnerving bluntness. That, coupled with his and his brother's strange speech patterns and total ignorance of social custom, often led Mustang to speculate that they had been raised by wolves. He never quite believed their claim that they were from Rizenbul, well within the realm.

"Well, again then," said Mustang.

"You're welcome," Alphonse said, with almost pointed politeness. The boy always behaved as if he wanted to be spared any scene, the exact opposite of his excitable brother.

"I also have something I want to share with you. Regarding our agreement." He had Edward's attention now, that bright, golden glare was leveled up at him, sparking with interest. "That lady alchemist we found on the road, yesterday, when I was questioning her she admitted that she and her husband are researching human transmutation. She told me where they live, so if you'd--"

Edward was already pushing himself up off the floor. It was a strenuous process that involved getting to his knee, grabbing his crutch, righting it and pulling himself up with it until he was standing.

"Where is she? We'll set off at dawn."

"Now wait a minute, Edward," Mustang said. "Be cautious with her, she could be dangerous. I'm sharing this information with you because it was part of our agreement, but I have to admit that I considered withholding it...she seems unbalanced."

Edward waved his hand dismissively. "This is our chance, we have to take it. We'll go see her tomorrow. I'm sure she won't do anything we can't handle."

Mustang wasn't so sure of that, but now that he had told them, how could he possibly stand in their way?

Luckily Ed was so tired from the day's work that he slept like a stone, but when Al shook him gently awake at first light, he sat up and rubbed his eyes clear of sleep within a moment, forgetting to doze or grumble about waking for a second. His mind returned to exactly where he had left off the night before, focused with clarity on his goal. He was grateful to Mustang for throwing this their way. It had been so long since even a book had been given to him—the better part of a year--that he had begun to worry that Mustang had either forgotten or had taken up that annoying adult habit of trying to "protect" them.

They were only two miles from town once they emerged from the forest, they could see it from where they stood at the top of the hill. Dublith nestled in its hot valley. The morning was cool but this region got hot when the sun was in full force. Much of the town was built with stone from nearby quarries, and all spread out from the cathedral at the town's center, where the Inquisitor was now ensconced. They would stay well clear of that. They could see a market on the eastern end of town, the tradespeople setting up their brightly colored awnings and stalls as the sun rose.

Ed sat on his horse--he considered her "his" even though she had never formally been given to him. Gentle Sarah, she was called, although he hadn't named her. If he had, that wouldn't have been the name. Even though it fit. He had squawked when they had first assigned her to him, and nobody had made any attempt to soften the blow, being extremely forthright about handing him a horse that no one else could stand to ride because she was so slow and steady. He had to admit, however, that it was what he needed, and he had grown to love her. He patted her neck as they looked over the valley, making sure that all was quiet before setting down into it. Al walked beside him as he rode, keeping pace with his lumbering, echoing body. He was so used to it now that there were sometimes moments when he forgot their quest, an instance that shamed him until he nearly despised himself. He had to remember, every minute of every day, what his purpose was here. Every thing he did, he did to fix his brother.

They often walked in silence, they knew each other so well there was little need for chatter, but today the silence was more weighty. They were both thinking, Ed knew, about whether this was going to make a difference for them.

When they reached the town they skirted around the eastern edge, avoiding the crowd that had begun to grow around the market, also in the east, and edged around it to find the widest lane leading out into a wooded area. They had seen some homesteads and farms from their view above the valley, but it had been hard to tell what they were aiming for. When they passed the Wild Goose Inn, Ed felt a surge of excitement. They were on the right path.

The house was set into the woods off the road, but it could be plainly seen. Made of stone with a wooden alcove or addition at its side, it was long and low. Some chickens and a cat prowled the front of the house, and there was an herb garden to the side, but otherwise there was no sign that its owners farmed.

They stopped a distance from the house so that they could look at it and size up the situation. It always helped to be prepared. All seemed quiet, but there was smoke coming from the chimney indicating that the hearth, at least, was lit, and that the alchemist was at home. And her husband, Ed reminded himself. There may be another alchemist here too. Ed found that he felt oddly timid, and realized it was because his expectations were so high. They had never gotten this close to alchemists who claimed to be practicing human transmutation, at least none who were purportedly sane.

Al tethered the horse and then they proceeded up the rustic, dusty path. The house was not admirably well tended, and had an air of neglect about it. Ed found this heartening: clearly they must spend all their time practicing alchemy instead of tending to their property. It made sense to him and gave him a jolt of confidence as they approached the door. Al knocked.

They waited. The occupants were taking their time, if they could hear them at all. Ed wordlessly nudged Al so he would knock again, more loudly and insistently this time. Finally, the door opened, and there stood the woman who they had seen two days before on the road. She was more composed now, her clothes neat—although not fancy—while her hair hung in long, thick curls.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Clearly she did not remember them, which meant she must not have seen them during the trip back to the camp that evening. Ed knew that the two of them were fairly memorable by sight.

"We're alchemists," Ed jumped right in, the eagerness in his voice unmodulated by caution. He spoke quickly, as if a time limit were put on this opportunity. "We're with the men who helped you the other night. Our leader--Mustang—he told us that you and your husband are alchemists and that you are studying human transmutation and we want to know what you know."

The woman—Mustang had said her name was Dante—raised her eyebrows and assumed an amused expression.

"Do you now?"

Ed nodded.

She regarded the both of them for quite some time, her eyes lingering particularly on Al. She paused for a long moment and then said, "You'd better come inside."

The house was plain but cluttered with objects that Ed immediately knew to be alchemic texts, flasks, and even some distilling equipment, rare to come by here. Dante indicated that they should sit at the long, cluttered table and moved some things aside to clear some space. She took a seat as well, putting her elbows on the table casually and clasping her hands.

"It's interesting that you should come to me, when you have yourselves practiced human transmutation," she said.

Ed had not expected her to be so forward, and he glanced nervously at Al.

"It's obvious," she went on. "To someone who knows." She looked at Al. "I want you to tell me everything—how does it feel? Do you sleep and dream? Do you ever lose consciousness?" She looked back at Ed and fired off more questions. "Did you do this? What array did you use? Did you see the Gate?'

"We did try it," Ed said. "But it went wrong. Attaching Al's soul to the armor was the result of an accident, I just did it out of desperation, we didn't mean for it to—"

"An accident?" She raised her eyebrows again. "There is no chance that this would be the result of an accident. It's extremely advanced alchemy."

"Well, I mean, I meant to do it, but only after the Gate took his body," Ed explained. This was the first time he'd admitted this to anyone since it had first happened. "We want to bring his body back, and we also want to go through the Gate again."

"What do you mean, go through it?" she asked. Her gaze was penetrating and focused, as if nothing about this conversation surprised her in the least. "You've seen it then?"

Ed nodded and looked at Al again.

"Did you both go through it?" she asked, leaning forward with eagerness. Her eyes were shining and intense. "Tell me everything."

Ed hesitated. Could he trust her with their secret or would she think they were insane? She was a complete stranger. Before he could decide, the door creaked open and a man came into the room. Dante stood up, beaming, and went to meet him.

"You're back!" she said. She indicated the table. "We have guests."

"I see." The man, tall and slim with long, light brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck, put down his traveling bag and stepped closer to them. "What is your business here?" He sounded somewhat less than welcoming, although his voice was calm.

Dante was at his side and smoothed her hand over his chest. "They've been to the Gate, husband. They were just about to tell me everything."

"Were they?" said the man, and his voice was now more gentle. "Well then, it seems that I've returned just in time." He smiled at them, but Ed noticed a slight hardening in his eyes as he assessed them. He was as sharp as his wife. He came over to the table and bowed his head slightly. "Van Hohenheim," he said.

Ed felt his mouth fall open, and he gaped at Al. A small, tinny gasp escaped from Al's armor as the man looming above the table took a seat at the head of it.

"Why does my name surprise you? Have you heard of me? As you're alchemists you may have...I'm also known as Hohenheim of Light, to those who seek to flatter me." He chuckled, then looked over at his wife, eyes twinkling. Dante was now putting a kettle of tea to boil at the hearth.

Ed couldn't say, of course, that this was their father's name. It wasn't a common one, and it was possible that this man was their ancestor, which was fascinating. He looked nothing like their family, but it was so many generations back that that wasn't relevant. Was he now a guest in the house of his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents? It was possible, after all. Interestingly, their father's notebooks had many transmutations focused on manipulation of light...perhaps that skill had been passed down through the generations. Ed looked down at the table, his mind racing. He might have learned it too, if his father had been around. He had developed his affinity for manipulating earth elements on his own, and with his teacher Izumi.

"Y--yes, I think we have heard of you, haven't we Ed?" Al said.

Ed nodded but now when he looked at the man it was with a new angle of interest.

"So, human transmutation?" Hohenheim leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and rested his chin on his clasped hands. "How did two so young dare to try it? Where did you get the inspiration for your array?" He looked back and forth between them. "It's clear to me what you traded at the Gate...your experiments took quite a toll on your bodies, I see."

Ed just looked at him. It was a new experience to talk to people who immediately understood what their situation was. There would be little point in lying to them.

"We need to restore my brother's soul to his body," Ed said plainly; he'd leave off the going through the gate part for now.

"And get my brother's arm and leg back," Alphonse added.

Ed waved his hand impatiently. "That's not as important, obviously. The problem is I don't have much left to give, and we have to be sure that we can restore his body. We've been researching the philosopher's stone."

Hohenheim and Dante shared a look across the room.

"We've been working to develop techniques that you may find of interest," said Hohenheim.

"But, as alchemists you know…equivalent exchange. You have to share what you know with us." He looked at them with a sharp appraising eye.

Ed nodded. "I understand."

"I don't know that you do," said Dante. She came to the table and set down the teapot, still hissing with steam. "You took quite a risk, coming here."

"I'd like to speak with my wife alone for a few moment. Wife, please pour out the tea. We'll be right back." Hohenheim rose from the table as his wife pour a cup of tea for Ed. She looked at Al pointedly before placing the kettle back in the hearth.

Ed picked up the cup and realized that his hand was shaking, his whole body was on fire with excitement. They'd finally found people who understood exactly what they wanted! He looked at Al, whose soul gazed at him from that blank mask. Soon, that would be over, and he would see his brother's face again. His heart soared.

"They make me nervous," Al said quietly.

"Sssh…they want to work with us. We'll get what we need, give them what they need, what's the problem?"

"You're so eager you're not thinking straight. I'm not sure they mean well."

Ed scoffed. "They're just your typical rogue alchemists, no more dangerous than anyone else we've come across. Remember Tucker? They can't be worse than him."

"I don't know." Al was still reticent. "I just have a bad feeling—they're so secretive, and the way they looked at us…."

"Sshh," hissed Ed. He leaned over the table to get closer to Al. "This is about getting your body back."

"So you're willing to do anything?"

"You know it."

Al paused. They'd had this conversation before too, although it had always been theoretical before now. Al looked over his shoulder at the door behind which the two alchemists had retreated.

"Stop being so timid about this, this is our big chance, I can feel it." Ed picked up the tea and blew on it. It was still piping hot and the ceramic cup burned his fingers, but he took a few swallows before he placed it down again. The couple were taking a longer time than he'd thought. His eyes wandered over the table, the piles of books and scrolls of paper, pieces of parchments, writing slates, pens, chalk and charcoal had all been pushed to one end of the table. He leaned over and reached for a book, flipping it open some distance from himself so that he could see it if he stretched toward it, but could simply sit up straight to avert any suspicion that he'd been reading it. Ignoring Al's admonishments, he focused on the writing—it was a note book, handwritten in brown ink. It took a moment for him to realize that it was familiar, the curve of the script, the half-crossed t's, the swoop of the y's, never closing, the tails stretching out under the length of the word. His heart did a flip at the familiarity of it. He looked up at Al.

"You're not gonna believe this—"

Suddenly their hosts opened the door they had disappeared behind. Hohenheim's arms were crossed, and his wife's eyes had a new, kind look that hadn't been there before.

"You haven't finished your tea, Edward," she said.

"Oh…right." He looked down at it. It was so thin that even though he had already had half the cup, he could see the leaves at the bottom. He drank as Dante and Hohenheim approached the table.

Hohenheim sat down again, and Ed noticed that he seemed more anxious than he had before he had left the room.

"Everything all right?" Ed asked, looking from one to the other, then back at Al.

"Oh yes," said Dante. She gazed at him for a moment, a look in her eyes that he did not fully understand. Then she walked slowly to where Al was sitting and stood behind him. A quick glance at her husband, and before Ed could process what was happening, she had grabbed at Al's helmet, separating it from his body.

"Hey!" Al protested. "What're you doing?"

Ed stood up angrily. "If you wanted to see the seal, you could've just asked!" he said.

Dante ignored him, and Hohenheim came to stand beside her as they examined the helmet. Seeing nothing there, they both peered into the armor, finding the seal immediately.

"Ah!" Dante peered at it as if fascinated. "Beautiful work. Your own blood?" She looked at Ed.

"Yes." His single hand was in a fist now, knuckles pressed against the table top.

"Nice touch," she said. "That's what makes it so strong."

"I know." He didn't bother adding that was all he had at the time...and that there was plenty of it. "Put it back now."

Dante stood holding the helmet under her arm. She seemed to be thinking, then she glanced up at her husband, who was still studying the array in Al's armor.

"Clever," he said.

"Can we...?"

"What are you talking about?" Ed demanded. His stomach was twisting now, an unsettling feeling—fear--beginning to course through his veins. He moved from his side of the table to stand beside Al. "I said put the helmet back, dammit."

"Haven't you been taught to speak to your elders with respect?" asked Dante. "Where do you come from anyway? You have a strange way of speaking."

"Rizenbul," he said.

Dante looked at Hohenheim. "My husband is from around there. Perhaps he knows your family."

"We don't have any family. Now put the helmet back."

"Where did you learn your alchemy then?" she asked.

"None of your business. Put. It . Back." Ed stood at his full height and glared at her. There was little he could do to threaten her except suggest that he would renege on his promises. "If you aren't going to cooperate, we can't work with you."

"Edward," said Hohenheim. "I suggest you stand back for a moment."

"What? NO--why?" He began to panic despite Hohenheim's calm demeanor. He grabbed onto the chair on which Al sat and spread his feet a bit to get traction. "Whatever you're thinking of doing...don't!"

Hohenheim sighed and quickly drew an array with chalk on the outside of Al's armor, at the back of the neck and activated it.

"I can't move," Al said plaintively. "Brother!"

Ed lunged for Al, but within a second he was in Hohenheim's grasp, the man's arm across his neck. While Ed struggled, Hohenheim looked around the room for a moment, as if he were looking for a troublesome mosquito. He squinted at the window a bit before reaching up and looking for all the world like he was grabbing at air. As he released Ed, Ed followed his hand and saw the array on the ceiling, squinted up at it to try to decipher is function before there was a flash of light in the room. It was white and gold and stood like rods around him. He was in a circular cage. When he reached up to touch one of the bars of light, it felt like solid wood. Once glance at the floor and the ceiling confirmed that the cage was a fusion between light and the house.

"What the---what the hell did you do?" Ed reached through two of the rods. He could still reach Al but what was the help in that?

"Just stay calm, boy." Hohenheim's voice was soothing.

"We don't want to hurt you," said Dante, sounding sincere. She came close and her eyes met his through the rods of light. "Just watch, you might learn something too."

"WHAT'RE YOU GOING TO DO?" Ed screamed, panicking. His hand gripped at a rod and tried to pull at it. He dug his hand into his pocket for a piece of chalk or slate, anything that might help him transmute out of this mess before these people did anything to Al.

Dante watched him fumble with his single hand, and even blinked lazily at him as if he presented no threat.

"That technique is protected against other alchemy," she said. "Don't exert yourself, child. Just watch."

She and Hohenheim moved the chair and the armor farther from the table, then Dante went to a shelf and returned holding a flat, metal flask. She brought it to the table and Ed watched in horror as she replicated his array on the new container by scratching it into the metal with a rusty-looking nail.

"Please…stop," Al begged. "Don't!"

"Don't," Ed screamed, his voice betraying his panic. "Don't please..."

They ignored him, caught up in their project. Hohenheim prepared two arrays on the floor around where Al's armor sat, one within the other, intricate. Ed knew the outer circle to be the one for human transmutation, the one they had used when they had tried to revive their mother; the second, inner circle was a mystery to him. He felt his face burning, his blood rushing in his ears, frustration threatening to tear him apart.

"NO!" he screamed. "DON'T!" He stamped his good foot on the wooden floor. "Please...I'm begging you." His voice softened. He never begged, not for real, but this time he had nothing to back him up. "You CAN'T! That's my brother….please…"

Dante looked at Hohenheim, and the man shook his head. "It's regrettable," he said. "Maybe this isn't the best way to go about it."

"When are we going to get a chance like this again?" she demanded. "We have a soul to experiment with! It's manna fallen into our laps. We were meant to have it," she said. "That's why you came here. We were mean to have it."

Ed shook his head. "We came here for help from fellow alchemists, and you want to STEAL my brother's soul, and my alchemy. That wasn't meant to happen….it wasn't."

"Ah," she said. "You are confusing fate with destiny." She looked up at her husband again. "People do that all the time, don't they?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ed spit. His hand tightened around the rod of light, knuckles white with tension.

She trained her gaze on Ed now. "It is OUR destiny, and YOUR fate. Don't you see? Poor child," she said. "I'm sorry for you. You must rely on your brother quite a lot, crippled as you are."

"Perhaps we can keep him as our apprentice?" Hohenheim said. "And then you'd get to still be with your brother. Would you like that?"

Ed's heart was beating wildly in his chest, threatening to burst. "I'll--I'll stay and be your apprentice, Al too, we both will, we'll help you...just don't do this."

"You heard what I said about destiny," Dante said. She held the metal flask to her chest. "Watch." She went over to the array and placed the flask on the floor next to Al's feet.

It wasn't in Ed's nature to give up, and he kept struggling against the rods surrounding him, frantically looking at the floor for some way, any way, to get out of this and stop them, but found nothing. He pulled a piece of chalk from his pouch and frantically scribbled an array at his feet, one that would ripple the wood of the floor and perhaps destroy the structure of Hohenheim's cage, but when he activated it, as Dante had warned, nothing happened. The array on the ceiling precluded other alchemic reactions.

Heart beating wildly, when he looked at them again they were both at the edge of the circle, Al in the middle, slumped in the chair. Hohenheim crouched down and touched its edges, and Ed's heart sank as the array began to activate. This would be relatively simple, he knew, moving it from the armor to the flask, nothing like what he did to attach Al's soul to the armor. The array glowed and then flared, filling the room with bluish light. Dante was still standing, her face glowing in the alchemic light, her eyes lit up with a monstrous awe and anticipation.

It was over faster than he thought it would be. The transmutation faded, leaving the scent of ozone and a slight whiff of burning in the now still air of the room. Ed leaned forward and strained against his cage again.

And he wailed, "Nooooooooooooooooooooo!", like the caged animal he felt himself to be, at that moment. Powerless, and now, robbed of the one thing he had that kept him going. Dante picked up the metal flask and produced the cap from her apron pocket. She screwed it on.

"For good measure, I suppose. Since it's bonded it doesn't technically need to be sealed, but just to be safe. For now." She slipped it into her pocket.

Ed's chest was heaving. "How do you know it worked?" he demanded.

Hohenheim silently approached, touched one of the rods that held him captive, and all of them sank into the ground immediately and as one, leaving no mark on the floor to suggest that they had ever existed. He gestured for Ed to follow him back to where the armor sat, and pointed to the array inside the neck of the suit. It was cracked.

"The soul was released and redirected there," said Hohenheim, gently, like a school teacher. Now he gestured at the flask in Dante's apron pocket. "It's fascinating, isn't it, to ponder the size of the soul. In a suit of armor of that size, one might imagine a large vessel is needed to house the soul. But we know that isn't true...just think, the smallest newborn infant has a soul as much as a full-grown-man has one."

Ed hadn't cried in a long time, possibly years, but as he stood staring numbly at the broken seal in Al's armor, he felt himself begin to slip. Helplessness washed over him, quickly followed by misery. How could he ever overpower them to get Al's soul away from them? His eyes burned and he blinked, but he would not cry, not now.

Maybe later.

Now he felt himself list to the side a bit, and the man's arms reached out to steady him.

"I'm sorry," he said. The man gruffly held Ed's shoulders and looked down at him with a piercing, steady gaze. "What we've done we've done for science." He felt the woman come towards him, slowly, and her smaller, softer hand reached out and cupped his cheek. She even looked at him with genuine concern.

"Your sacrifices will not have been in vain," she said. "We will--"

Ed pushed her hand away with all his waning strength. "Don't touch me you fucking witch," he hissed. He pulled away from the man's grasp too, his entire body shaking. He took a step back from them.

He had found his center. "Give me that, you bitch" he spat, looking at Dante's pocket.

They both looked at him, seemingly shocked.

"Such a foul mouth for an educated boy," commented Dante. "It really is quite surprising."

Without warning Hohenheim lifted him as if he were a child and forced him onto a chair.

"Now sit down, we'll give you something to eat," he said.

"What're you, crazy? You've just stolen my brother's soul and you want me to sit here and let you feed me?"

They both looked at him with what Ed could only decide was pity. He had nothing, and they had everything.

"I have some ham in the cooling cupboard, I think that might be nice," said Dante, and she crossed the room. "In the mean time, I'll make you another cup of tea."

****

Breda and Falman had scouted down in the town for him today, and when they returned they had news for Mustang.

"Reinforcements approaching, they'll be here by tomorrow," Breda reported.

Falman added, "The Inquisitor has already had signs put up announcing another spectacle for tomorrow evening."

"I see he can't wait," said Mustang.

"Let's go get him now," said Crimson, "before the troops come."

"He's still heavily guarded," Armstrong said. "He's not easy to get to unless he's out in the open, and that is only during his spectacles."

"He still thinks that no matter what we do, we won't get him," Mustang said. "He thinks he's invulnerable."

"He thinks he is protected by God," said Armstrong. "It makes a man arrogant."

"To say the least," Mustang said bitterly. "I don't want to let him kill even one person tomorrow, not one. We've been too late far too often."

"If I may make a suggestion, sir," said Falman. He straightened the sword in its belt at his hip. "Perhaps some of us should blend into the crowd so that we can stop them right away, before the rest of the band comes down on the horses."

Mustang considered this. "Those who volunteered to do that would be most at risk for their lives."

"I know," said Falman. "But it's the only way we can get that close before things start."

Mustang nodded. "All right then. Spread the word that we want volunteers on the ground."

"Yes sir," said Falman. "I'll be one."

Mustang nodded again, knowing that Falman would never had suggested such a thing had he not intended to volunteer himself.

"Me as well," said Breda gruffly.

"Thank you," said Mustang. He glanced at the Crimson as Breda and Falman left.

"Don't look at me. You know I like to make a big entrance. That stuff's for those without gifts," Kimbley said, arrogant as always. "I'll come swooping down and blow that Inquisitor to kingdom come."

"You haven't managed to do that yet," Mustang observed drily. "Besides, you know I want to take him alive, if we can."

"So you can torture him," said Crimson, smirking.

Mustang shivered slightly at that. Yes, he had to admit, part of him wanted to torture the Inquisitor for all his crimes. But that was not why he wanted to take him alive.

He wanted to talk.

After Crimson left, Mustang's thoughts fell to other matters, how to best arrange the charge of alchemists on the morrow. He was still on a learning curve, he found, and each location was different. He didn't like to make too much of a mess of town squares, and disliked injuring civilians or their property. People were poor enough without him and his men destroying their town. The Elrics could always be counted on for some clever engineering, but the sun had gone down and they were still out on their visit. He began to feel uneasy about having let them go. He needed them back by tomorrow morning, but resolved to let them pursue their interests this evening. If they were not back by midnight, he would make a trip into town himself.

****

Ed struggled gamely as they bound him, but he was no match for them. The tea had made his mind fuzzy and his tongue thick, and even he knew his protestations were unintelligible. They had put him on their straw pallet, on his side, his hand bound behind him with a rope around his waist. They had taken away his wooden leg and put it in the wood chest. When he retched and vomited over the side of the bed, they came in and stood over him, clucking with concern. He tried to keep his eyes open as the room spun around him.

"Tsk, this is so unfortunate," complained Dante. "I really do feel terrible about this." She stroked the damp hair away from his face, an intimacy that he found unbearable but he was unable to stop her. "I hope we didn't give him too much nightshade...I just wanted him to sleep, not be ill." She stroked him again. "Poor child."

Her pity rankled him more than anything. He gritted his teeth and tried to sit up, but Hohenheim reached out and pushed him back down without effort.

Hohenheim grunted and Ed felt the cold wave of his disapproval, even has he tried to fight off the effects of the drug.

He heard Dante say, "What else would you have me do? If we let him go now he'll go back to Mustang and the outlaws. We have to buy some time to get away."

Hohenheim grunted again, then sighed, and Ed heard him begin to gather things up from around the room. He said, "It's a shame he doesn't want to stay with us, if he would be compliant. It would be like having a child of our own, finally."

"We will have a child of our own," she said, and through his half-open eyes Ed could see her clench a fist to her belly. "If this body can't conceive a child, then I'll find one that can."

Hohenheim looked pointedly at Ed. "There's an orphan, and an alchemist besides. He has nobody."

"He's too old," said Dante. "He'd never really be ours, and he's a cripple besides."

Hohenheim shrugged. "He's a talented alchemist, it's a shame to let that go to waste with the outlaws."

Dante frowned and looked down at him once more. Suddenly, he felt a surge of energy and began to thrash.

"Let me go, you bitch," he spat. "Give me my brother and let me go."

She just stared at him. Hohenheim drew closer to the bed.

"Now, now boy, hold your tongue. We've been as kind as we can but you are being uncooperative. I'd advise you to be quiet. I'm sure your outlaw general will come looking for you before long, after we're gone."

"Bastard! You just fucking go, I will hunt you down and when I find you, I'm taking my brother back and I will fucking kill you." He felt his head get hot and light from the poison and as he closed his eyes he felt Dante slap him across the face hard enough to make a sound crack the air.

"How dare you, whelp. We were trying to spare you. You can forget about our mercy now. We'll leave you to chance, shall we? Let's see what your fate is without us on your side."

Weakened and delirious as he was, he still managed to scream curses at them when they left him in the alley between two buildings close to the center of town. It was the dead of night, and they had packed their bags and taken the horses the boys had brought, ready for their journey, with a soul in their possession.

"I'm going to renounce you to the Inquisitor, if we can't find you, he will!"

"Renounce us if you will. We will be long gone, and in disguise." They stood over him for a moment.

"Damn you!" he spat again, like a rabid animal, he was, caught in a trap.

"Science," said Dante, "sometimes requires sacrifice."

He was still bound: Dante had alchemized his wrist to the wall, a cuff of stone binding him there as he sat, his hand beside his head, like a sad, broken doll, with his missing limbs and his wild hair. A useless transmutation circle had been drawn next to him, just out of the reach of even his single foot.

She had scrawled ALCHEMIST and SINNER in coal, on the stone wall, over his head in an arc, so the soldiers of the Lord would find him there and take him to hell.

Neither of them looked back at him as they head out of town.

******************************

**

Mustang slid off his horse and approached the house. There was no smoke from the chimney, the hearth was cold. He peeked through the window and saw no movement through the distorting glass. Worried, he pushed the door open and it creaked. He looked back at Hawkeye, who stood at the ready with her bow at the top of the path, ready to shoot should someone challenge them.

"Hello? Is anyone at home?" Roy's voice echoed in that lonely way that confirmed the house was indeed empty. He stepped into the main room and his eye fell immediately on the suit of armor slumped in a corner. He rushed to it. "Alphonse?" He reached out and touched it, and the helmet clattered to the floor. The broken seal glared at him even in the dim light.

"Damn," he said, kicking the empty armor. "Damn damn damn."

He frantically checked the two other rooms to the house, and even pulled open the root celler. Nothing. He left the house, leaving the door open behind him. He turned at stared at it, stifling the urge to snap his fingers and burn it to the ground. It would only bring unwanted attention.

"What is it?" asked Hawkeye. "Where are the boys?"

Mustang closed his eyes. "Gone. It was my doing. I should never have sent them here." He clenched his fists. "I'm such a fool, sending children here alone!"

"They're talented alchemists," reminded Hawkeye, lowering her bow. "They are not without defenses."

"She was strong, and her husband probably turned up too. No match for the boys, no matter how talented." He stared grimly at the house.

"Should we look for them?" she asked.

Mustang hesitated and then sighed. "We have work to do. The Inquisitor is putting on a show tonight, that has to be our top priority. The good of the many over the good of the few," he said, mostly for his own benefit. "We will find them on the road tomorrow."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A small contingent of the Inquisitor's enforcement troops arrived before dawn. Their approach was heard long before they could be seen. The ground in the forest rumbled and Roy Mustang could feel it through the layers of thin blankets he lay upon. He hadn't slept well; the Elrics were gone and that disturbed his battle plans, not to mention his conscience. He tried to push it from his mind as he rose and prepared for the day. The camp was already bustling with movement; the outlaws were always excited before an encounter with the Inquisitor, and today was going to be a big day. Today was the day they were going to get close. Roy could feel it as he strapped on his sword belt and pulled on his gloves. He had never been within ten feet of the Inquisitor, close enough to take him out for certain. He hadn't been lying though, he wanted to speak to the man, wanted to ask him why he did what he did. He wanted to understand.

The scouts went down as soon as the troops descended onto Dublith. They would report on when today's inquisition would begin. There had already been news of the square being prepared over the night. Straw bales had been set around the perimeter, one of the Inquisitor's slight nods to public health. Blood didn't have to run in the streets; people might slip on it.

The sun was already high in the sky when Fuery and Breda returned with the news. The Inquisition was set for one o'clock, the new soldiers were already ringing the square. Word was out that the outlaws were in the woods, and the Inquisitor had already put up signs with the likenesses of a number of the outlaws, including himself. Fuery reported that a town crier was reporting that there were ten heretics and witches to be brought to justice today. Mustang considered that a good thing; the fewer there were, the more chance they had of getting them all away. None of them would die today.

As he saddled his horse beside Hawkeye's, she remarked, "The Elrics will be missed today."

He let his mouth settle into a grim line. He knew that she had said this because she was worried about them. There was no question that something bad had happened...or...

"Who knows?" he said, faking a smile. "Perhaps those other alchemists helped them restore their bodies and they ran off back home, happy as larks."

She wasn't buying it and looked away as she pulled her own saddle tight, then patted her horse's neck grimly. She wouldn't say but he thought it likely that she was thinking the same thing he was: the Elrics were dead.

It saddened him more than he thought such a loss would, but he pushed it from his mind. Now was not the time to dwell, he would look for them after today, find that Dante and her husband and find out what happened to them.

"Falman, are the coins ready?"

"Yes sir, and distributed with a dozen riders. We'll be sure the crowd gets them."

"Good. Are you and the other vanguard ready to go down?"

Falman nodded and went to gather the rest of the vanguard. They would perform some crowd guidance and control before the outlaws swooped down to interrupt the inquisition, and hopefully, this time, capture the Inquisitor.

"Armstrong, you'll lead the charge when I send the signal," Mustang told him, mounting his horse. They would only be riding to the far edge of town so that they could slip in without attracting notice. The soldiers would be looking for mounted men. Mustang squinted at the sky, and tried to mark the minutes, willed time to move faster, as the sun wheeled to its height in the firmament. He felt excited, like this was a day of reckoning. It was, for the Inquisitor, he had waited long enough.

The vanguard consisted of 8 men, none of them alchemists aside from Mustang. They quickly fanned out into the crowd once they reached the square, pushing to the front of the crowds to get the best view. When the church tower chimed one, the crowd let loose a murmur of anticipation that washed over Mustang like a wave. He hadn't been close up in a crowd for some time, but he thought it safe to assume that it was always like this. He could sense both fear and excitement ripple around him. It was intoxicating, no matter what else he might claim.

Today the Inquisitor let the crowd stare at the dusty, empty square for a long while before he burst out of the doors of the cathedral and strode purposefully into the square, with two soldiers guarding him from both ahead and behind. Mustang suppressed a scoff; he wanted to ask the Inquisitor why, if he was so certain of being in the Lord's favor, he bothered with such protection. Surely the Almighty would smite anyone who tried to injure the hand of his justice?

The crowd pressed forward with more urgency as the Inquisitor stepped into the square. There was no music, no sound, except the breathing of the crowd.

"My countrymen! My fellow faithful! The faithful subjects of the realm, which God Himself has smiled upon! If you are faithful, then the Lord favors you!" The Inquisitor raised his arms so that everyone could see him and cheer, for they were being flattered for just existing, and who could resist that? Today he was wearing his most fearsome attire, and Mustang wondered with a pang of concern why, today, he was wearing his red robes. On his head, a small, red skullcap, nothing fancy. On his feet, black boots under the flowing red robes. Dublith was a dusty town, and already the hem of his immaculate red robes were ringed with dust.

Mustang hadn't been close to the Inquisitor for years, but he had washed his feet years before, when he was still a boy, as a page in the great cathedral in Central Palatinate. He hadn't been allowed to be an alter boy because he was not of pure Amestrian blood, and he was a bastard besides. Back then the Inquisitor had liked to remind him that he was lucky to have any blood at all, that he was at his mercy every second of every day, that he suffered him to live as a slave because of his merciful heart.

Roy Mustang thought he would like to rip out his beating heart and set fire to it.

And then Amestris would be free of his tyranny. It was well and good for him to be the rebel soldier, the prince of outlaws. Nobody had to know quite how personal it was.

The ranting and frothing continued. The Inquisitor was a good speaker, Mustang had to give him that. No matter how many times he had heard his patter, there were always some new embellishments, a new flourish, a new turn of phrase. A new terror, perhaps, a new torment in Hell. A new way to die invented before one's very eyes, courtesy of the Inquisitor's flexible mind.

"Bring out the heretics!" the Inquisitor proclaimed, and a line of prisoners were poked into the sunlight from the shadows, pushed from the basement of the church.

"BEHOLD THEM!" screeched the Inquisitor, sweeping his arm to encompass the sad, bedraggled line of today's doomed. "They have defiled the basement of the church with their lies and denials, we've had to purify the altar because even being in the presence of the Blessed Virgin could not make them confess, one of them even spat upon her visage!" The crowd oohed in awe at the audacity of that. No, no, they could never in a million years, not any one of them, imagine a situation in which they might be pressed to perform such blasphemy. The indignation rose from the crowd as the prisoners were yanked forward by two soldiers at the front of the line. Mustang examined them as they passed into the sunlight, gathered in the center of the square, blinking in the bright light. Several men, a few women, of various ages, with only two of them appearing to be quite old...and then, the last accused, carried roughly under the arm of a burly soldier, and dropped, also chained, hard on the stone, and sprawled forward, matted blond hair covering the face.

Mustang's stomach lurched before he stopped himself lunging at the square, without thought.

Upon the Inquisitor's urging, the soldier who had thrown him to the ground prodded Edward in the ribs with the toe of his boot, and Edward pushed himself up and leaned on his single arm, looking around him. He could not stand like the other prisoners, and so sat on the ground, his hair wild around him like he was a feral child. The crowd would find him repulsive and frightening, Mustang thought, they wouldn't understand.

The Inquisitor was more interested in another of his finds at the moment, however, while Edward sat on the cobblestones. Mustang could see he was shivering, even though the sun was quite strong and burning right down on them. He could see that his face was bruised and dirty, that his eyes were not fully open, and that his wrist was bloody from the shackles.

He searched his mind for an explanation of how Edward had fallen into the Inquisitor's clutches, but since Dante was not among the others, he couldn't imagine what had happened.

"Heretic!" frothed the Inquisitor. Although the man's words were hysterical and pitched, when he paused it was clear to see it was all an act for the benefit of his audience. The Inquisitor had stopped before a middle-aged man, who had apparently been Dublith's mayor until two nights ago, when the man had challenged the Inquisitor's authority in his town.

"I am not a heretic!" the mayor declared, but he did not waver and his voice did not quaver. "I am a man of faith, and I believe in honor and justice. The Inquisition is not welcome in Dublith!" Then he spat at the Inquisitor's feet.

There was a ripple of a cheer through the crowd, that traveled around illusory as a snake in deep grass. The Inquisitor and some of the soldier's swiveled their heads, seeking the source of the cheers, but they died on the breeze. The mayor had been a popular man only two days ago. Now no one could lift their eyes to his. The mayor of Dublith stood proud though, even though his clothes were torn and soiled and his face showed evidence of a beating.

"You are a heretic!" declared the Inquisitor. "Questioning the Inquisiton--" Even Mustang's lip quirked up at that, as the mayor gave a full-throated chortle.

"You are a fool. If you are going to do it, kill me now and have it over!" said the mayor.

But the Inquisitor did not like being laughed at, Mustang knew. In fact, it was quite probably his least favorite thing.

"You will die," he said, right in the mayor's face but loud enough for the breeze to carry his threat to the ears of everyone present. "But long and hard, my friend, for your impudence."

The mayor of Dublith still looked unafraid, and for this alone Mustang ached to give the signal and set upon them now, but still the Inquisitor was too tightly protected by his ring of soldiers. They had agreed to wait until the last possible moment to cause the greatest amount of chaos, but the anticipation was killing him. What if the Inquisitor decided, all of a sudden, to have done with them? And now Edward Elric sat at the end, the snake's broken tail, looking around himself as if he were waking from a dream.

"Everyone here today will burn!" announced the Inquisitor. "The pyre will be set alight tonight as the sun goes down, as the ghosts of the dead souls start to walk the land, and lay claim to all of you with your impure hearts. I don't mean just these accused!" he declared, thumping at his chest with his fist. "These poor wretches only got caught! I know this crowd is filled with men and women harboring wicked thoughts against the Church and the King! Don't think I don't know. Don't think I don't know that you have neighbors who are witches and alchemists and heretics, who practice their evil science and spread lies about the nature of life, of God himself, perverting the laws of nature!"

Now the Inquisitor suddenly marched down to the end of the line of prisoners and reached down, grabbing Edward by the front of the roughspun shift that had been put on him. He pulled him up and shook him like a rag doll, in order to display the state of his body, then he let him fall to the ground again.

"Alchemy made this boy a cripple--tore his limbs right off his body--did you see that?" the Inquisitor demanded of his audience. "Anyone who claims that alchemy is anything but witchcraft and dealing with the devil's arts is lying to you, do you understand?" The Inquisitor looked down at Edward but then began to pace again. "I keep hearing of people going to alchemists for herbal medicines and simple medical cures. But you are still dealing with the devil, people, you must not be tempted!"

The Inquisitor paced with dramatic agitation and faced the crowd. "These sinners' souls will go to Hell tonight. Tell me! Who among you is certain that you are going to heaven when you die?" His question was an interesting one, Mustang thought, but most of the people in the crowd were less amused. A murmur of disquiet went up again. It was one thing when the Inquisitor flattered their piety; quite another when he actually made them think.

"Are you so good?" the Inquisitor demanded. "Look inside your own heart, your own mind. Do you doubt, if only for a moment, in your own essential goodness? Are you always righteous, always merciful? ARE YOU?"

Mustang looked around him. Some people were nodding, sure indeed that they were always righteous and merciful, but others looked quite unsure and frightened.

The Inquisitor rubbed his chin with his hand, seemed to be somewhat amused by the ripple of doubt he had sent through the crowd. He walked toward one side of the square; part of the crowd seemed to surge toward him, reaching for his blessing, to touch his robe, while the other half seemed to shrink away. "Anyone here wish to judge these wretches here today?" he asked. There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm for this. The Inquisitor scowled and marched across the square, toward where Mustang was ensconced near the front of the crowd.

"How about any of you? Sinners? Anyone here willing to pass judgment? What if I told you, I would let one of these wretches go? Who would you choose?" The Inquisitor was now warming to his theme, stretching his arm out and sweeping across the square and the ten prisoners who stood--or in Edward's case, sat--on its uneven stones. "Who is most deserving of my mercy? Who shall we choose to give another chance to repent? Hmm?" The Inquisitor wheeled wildly around, searching faces in the crowd. Mustang had never seen him quite so ready to engage, it was as if he were about to go mad. Not since the time he had let him get close enough to throw a flame into his face. "Come, come, are you all such cowards? Who deserves our mercy? Your beloved mayor? The washerwoman who keeps an idol of Leto in her basement? The printer of blasphemous texts?" He paused before he got to Edward. "The alchemist who has already been punished by God...why not let him go?" The Inquisitor raised his arms. "Who deserves your mercy?"

The crowd began to grumble, disliking being fucked with, and Mustang thrilled, it was as if the Inquisitor had known what was coming and was looking forward to it. The Inquisitor was in a strange mood, but an hour had passed and soon the prisoners would be taken away and locked up until evening. He was relieved that they didn't have to deal with a blood-soaked execution right now, but it also meant that their window was now tight. Some of the prisoners had fallen to their knees, and all except the proud mayor of Dublith were at least swaying. Edward sat, his eyes shielded by his hair, so Mustang could not see what was going on with him. While the Inquisitor's back was turned toward his area of the crowd, Mustang raised his hand above the crowd and snapped his fingers. An arrow shot overhead, single, silent, but with red fletching, and his men knew what to do.

The vanguard hidden in the crowd began to throw coin into the square. As they had planned, it was impossible to tell where it had come from, but suddenly thousands of gold coins were glittering at the periphery of the square, and the soldiers, space widely apart, couldn't keep the populace from pushing between their legs to get at it. Suddenly hundreds of people, soldiers included, were scrounging on the group and whooping as they scooped up the coveted coins. The Inquisitor immediately began to demand who had thrown this money, when someone in the crowd yelled "It's manna from the heavens!" and then some other people laughed and the Inquisitor's spell was broken. There was an explosion at one corner of the square, the calling card of the Crimson Alchemist, and Mustang heard the sound of his horsemen coming down the streets of Dublith into the square, the hoofbeats pounding as they approached. Mustang ran toward the prisoners, even as some of the Inquisitor's more faithful soldiers were gathering them up and dragging them from the square.

"Let them go," said Mustang, standing at the head of the line.

The soldiers looked at one another as if they could not understand why they should listen to him. And then they voiced that question:

"And why should we listen to /you/?" The soldier who had dropped Edward onto the square drew his sword, but Mustang stepped back and held his gloved hand before him.

"Because I am an alchemist, and I will turn you to ash if you don't step aside," Mustang said. "I will do it."

The big soldier hesitated, then looked at his four companions. The Inquisitor could be heard shouting somewhere in the background, and the sounds of explosions and clashing swords filled the air. On the ground, the people who had come to see God's justice done on earth were still scrounging for the last of the coins.

"Too late," Mustang said, and he snapped, sending a controlled column of fire upon the soldier holding the end of the line of prisoners. The others drew their swords but when Mustang turned to them, they fled, only to run right into Kimbley, who was not so merciful as even the Inquisitor.

"You get to burn," he said, smirking. "But I don't feel like waiting til sundown."

Armstrong was suddenly at Mustang's side, helping him to free the prisoners. The chain was nothing to Armstrong, and he worked his way down, starting with the Mayor. Mustang held onto Edward, who was looking at him with a veiled gaze.

"Edward, you're all right, we've got you now," Mustang said, squatting down to gather the boy into his arms. He didn't resist, but as Mustang stood he saw Armstrong distracted from his task, working his alchemy on a group of soldiers descended upon the square. Pandemonium reigned as he tried to run from the square and find somewhere safe to put Edward, so he could go after the Inquisitor. One turn and a wall of soldiers blocked his way, the Inquisitor amongst them, he alone unarmed, and unharmed, by the chaos around them.

"I knew we'd get close enough some day," said the Inquisitor, stepping forward. "Even though, I was quite certain it was you."

"It is I," Mustang said. He held Edward to him tightly but his strength was beginning to fail him. He would be taken prisoner now too, unless their fellow alchemists rescued them in a moment.

"Bastard sons are so inconvenient," complained the Inquisitor lightly. "I should have killed you in your cradle."

**

As the bastard son of the Inquisitor, Roy Mustang was given the royal treatment, which was, hands tied behind his back, and a noose around his neck, loose about his bare shoulders like a monstrous necklace. One of the Soldiers of God had flipped the end of the rope over one of the rafters in the church's small side building, "So as not to desecrate the chapel with your godlessness," the Inquisitor had said.

Edward was not so fortunate. The guards had been told to beat and kick at him some more, and they had done so, although half-heartedly, Mustang thought. Even they felt guilt at kicking a barely conscious boy. Edward barely stirred, although he did moan occasionally and look through swollen eyes, but he had the thousand yard stare; whatever he was seeing was not in this room with its cold terra cotta floor and its small fireplace and dark shadows. It was approaching night and Mustang had gathered that Edward had been in their custody for less than a day, already reduced to this.

Still, they kept him here, in the corner with his single hand chained and the chain around his waist, so that Mustang could see him.

"I haven't decided how he's going to die yet," mused the Inquisitor, putting a cup of wine down on the table. "Sometimes I think letting them live is a punishment, if they are too far gone."

"You've always been a merciful man," said Mustang acidly.

"Don't scoff. Do you think I'm really that shallow and cruel?" The Inquisitor seemed almost offended. "People like that boy are good for the rest of the sheep. They remind them how fragile their bodies are, how they are nothing but clay in the hands of the Lord. It also softens their hearts to charity, to see a cripple boy like that, don't you think, hm? If he hadn't been an alchemist would you ever have given him a second look if he came to you with his hand out?"

Mustang had to avert his eyes when he answered that truthfully. "No."

His father shook his head. "You always were a proud, ambitious boy. In my heart I knew you were a viper, even when you were very young. I should have ended your life much sooner. What trouble you've caused us all." Here the Inquisitor smiled and even wagged a finger at him, almost playfully. "Your men made quite a mess at the Inquistion today; we only recovered one other prisoner, and several of my soldiers were killed or injured." He paced. "Didn't get any of yours, except now they know that we have you, don't they?" He came up close to Mustang. Although shorter and quite slight, and thirty odd years older, he was still a strong man. He struck a blow at the soft spot under Mustang's ribs, where there was already a deep bruise from the beatings administered by his soldiers. Mustang's breath left him for a moment, but he struggled to gain composure and held his head up. "We'll soon find out how loyal your men are, won't we?" The Inquisitor reached for a leather knout on the table, braided, thick and short with loose flails of leather at the end. "I hear that the Crimson has a following in your band. What's to stop him from taking over now that you're indisposed?" He slapped the knout against his palm. He frowned as he circled Roy, and teased the flesh of his chest and his back with the leather as if choosing the best place to draw blood.

Edward chose this moment to raise his matted head from the floor and push himself up on his arm. When he spoke his voice was harsh and raspy, almost unrecognizable through the gritted teeth. "You're the bastard!" The golden eyes blazed and Mustang felt a momentary lift; it had looked like Edward was dead over there. But there was always the dreadful possibility that it might have been better for him to die on his own, like that, than to be put to the mercy of the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor walked over to where Edward lay in his heap, with his head held up now. He looked down on him and didn't even bother to hurt him again. "Who betrayed you, boy?" He looked at Mustang. "Someone had alchemized his arm to a wall, left him there to be found by us, with the word SINNER burnt into the wall above his head. A lovely touch, was it not?"

Edward only scowled at him.

"Father...let the boy go," Mustang said. He stood as tall as he could, chin out, a stance that his father had always encouraged in him, even right before he delivered a beating for the transgression of being proud before the Lord. One should be proud, and then one should be humbled. He had never entirely understood it, but there it was. He hadn't called him Father in twenty years. Even then it was Father, as in Father of Us All.

He had not been allowed to. He was only a bastard boy, and there were at least two more than he knew of, and dozens of the other holy men's whelps besides. He had never received kindness at the hands of this holy man, this hypocrite who was also his father. He had been beaten and made to be a slave, had been told he was less than worthless, that he lived only because the Inquisitor willed it.

Now he wanted nothing more than to follow through with his plan to kill the man, to burn him with his alchemy, his gift, as the man had burned countless others in his terror campaign over the years.

"Yes, I could let him go," said the Inquisitor. "But he's an alchemist, he'll only come back for more. Your kind always do."

The sun was falling and the room in the basement of the cathedral had grown dark with shadow. Two guards watched Roy Mustang and Edward Elric. Although both were incapacitated at the moment, they were considered dangerous criminals who had dealings with the devil. Edward was allowed to lie in a heap on the floor, but Roy was made to stand with that noose around his neck and his hands tied behind his back. The Inquisitor had gone off for a while, to prepare, he said, for the pyre.

He returned right before dusk, in a clean set of robes, this time white, so that, Mustang figured, he would glow in the night as the fires stole their souls.

The Inquisitor crossed his arms and paced the room, toeing Edward's side with his boot before stopping to stand before Mustang. He looked him over, nostrils flaring.

"So, I've given out word that I have caught the leader of the outlaw alchemists, and you are to be brought to your maker tonight, on the pyre. Everyone is very excited."

Mustang swallowed, and he could see Edward stir and raise his head.

"No trial?" he asked. His heart banged so hard in his chest he knew that even the Inquisitor could see it. The man watched him, an expression that looked surprisingly close to regret on his face.

"I cannot risk taking you to Central," said the Inquisitor. "Too many opportunities for escape, you see."

"But wouldn't it be quite the spectacle for you to ride into Central Palatinate with me?" asked Mustang. "Then you could have me tried in the Red Court, for all to see."

"Yes, yes." The Inquisitor paced away again, his hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back. "I've thought of all that. But I can't risk you getting away from me, while I have you. So I've already decided, I will ride into Central Palatinate with your head, the rest of you burns tonight."

Roy looked down at the floor as he tried to still his heart. It would have been better to buy time with a trial a week's journey from Dublith, but it looked as if time was going to be tight.

"If this is my last night on earth," Mustang said, simply, "will you talk with me?"

The Inquisitor stopped his pacing. He came and stood before Mustang, very close, then reached out and grabbed his chin with his hand, much as he had when he was a boy.

"Tell me," said the Inquisitor. "Why are you doing this? Have your actions these past years all been to take revenge on me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Mustang said. He turned his head as he spoke, as the Inquisitor paced the room. The man seemed more nervous than he, who was condemned to die in an hour's time. "I am doing this to free Amestris from the yoke of superstition and religion, to bring a new era of science and enlightenment unto the world."

The Inquisitor stopped his circling and smiled enigmatically. "Really? Well, that is a noble goal, my boy." He clapped his hands together several times. "You are going to save the world from its own ignorance?"

Roy Mustang nodded once, felt the weight of the noose resting on his shoulders.

The Inquisitor began to shake with laughter. It was a forced mirth, Mustang could tell, but it was pointed and meant to mock him.

"You are so naive," said the Inquisitor when he had controlled his mirth at last.

"I'm naive? I'm not the one who believes alchemy and science are witchcraft and blasphemy," said Mustang, narrowing his eyes.

The Inquisitor shook his head. "Do you think I'm that much of a fool? That I'm a sheep like the rest of them? I didn't get to be head of the ecclesiastical courts for nothing, my boy." He put his hands behind his back and paced again.

"What do you mean? You don't believe alchemy is of the devil?"

"Of course not!" The Inquisitor stopped pacing and beamed at him, his eye even twinkled. "It's a gift and a talent, and can be used for marvelous things. I have alchemists secretly working for me, apothecaries and armorors. Although, you dominate when you use your alchemists in the field...I can't do that, of course."

Mustang only stared at him now, shocked. "Are you saying that those rumors are true, that you have employed alchemists? Is your entire life an act? You don't believe?"

"Oh, I believe. I believe that people are too stupid to act on their own, they'd be running mad, eating their young and bashing one another's heads in for food and gold. People need discipline, my boy, and they need fear. That's what the Church is for. That's what the Inquisition is for." He leveled his gaze at Mustang. "You give people too much credit. They cannot live with only science, they will go mad."

"But my people--"

"Your people are soldiers, and mad alchemists, most of them. What about regular people who can't wield a sword or manipulate elements? What is their power in this world? You do not understand, you think you are bringing enlightenment, but you bring only despair. They won't be happy."

"You're mad," said Mustang. "The Truth will make people free."

"Free? And then what? They won't submit to the Church, they won't submit to the Crown, they will wander and fight and live in lawlessness. Trust me my boy, they need God to fear, they need the Inquisition to tell them how to live."

Mustang closed his eyes and shook his head. "No."

Again the Inquisitor came close and Roy could feel his presence near him, his body as he approached the bare flesh of his chest.

"My boy," said, and he traced a white-gloved finger over a mass of scars over Roy's ribs. "You've burned yourself with your alchemy many times. Is it worth it, such a gift that bites back? Imagine not having to fight anymore. You can work for me."

Roy shook his head again. "I'll never give up. The Church as it is now is nothing but a slavemaster and a thief of treasure and lives. Its propaganda is nothing but lies."

"Those lies make people happy. It makes them feel safe, to walk away from an Inquisition having seen the guts of some alchemist, some witch, some pagan, spilt before their eyes. It reminds them that they need to stay in line, and tells them how to live. Believe me, most people don't want the responsibility of making their own choices, and most would prefer the protection of the church and the crown to the darkness of their own souls."

"How can you.....how can you murder people when you know, then, that it's all lies?" Roy asked, incredulous. It was one thing when he thought that the man was a crazed acolyte, another completely when he realized that it was all an act.

"It's not murder, they are all criminals, in their way, and need to be punished. Like you, they need to be sacrificed for the greater good." The Inquisitor touched Roy's cheek again. "A lovely boy...you are so like your mother, you have the face of that Xingian whore." He pushed Roy's hair aside as Roy snarled at him. "Whatever happened to her, I wonder?"

"She died," Roy said through gritted teeth. "You had her flogged to death, do you not remember?" His eyes were red and damp now, if he could have lashed out and strangled the man, he would have done.

The Inquisitor stepped back and paused, as if to think. Mustang couldn't tell if he was deliberately tormenting him. "Ah...yes, I think I recall. She and some of the other charity girls tried to teach themselves to read. I do remember that. Yes." He looked Mustang in the eye.

"You made me watch."

"And so I did. You and the other whores' bastards. Just like our flock, we needed to make you afraid and make you sheep. It lit you on fire, but there are always casualties. The tactic usually works." He came close again. "You must have gotten your gift from the Xingian whore. There is not an alchemical bone in my body."

The Inquisitor looked at the window and gestured to it. "Darkness falls. I do so hate to waste your death on Dublith, my firebrand. It's a shame."

"Then take me to Central for trial in the Red Court."

"So you can proclaim your innocence? There are a thousand witnesses to you and your antics. You just want your chance to escape, and barring that, spew your nonsense about freedom in the Red Court, get the sheep to cheer for you. They'll be the same ones bleating a cheer when your entrails are pulled across Central Square."

Mustang lowered his eyes. It was true, he knew. It still didn't mean that he would give up.

"Besides, there is rumor of the plague sweeping down from the North. Central Palatinate may be quarantined within the week. I was thinking we might settle down in the South for a while, before you started this trouble."

"I've heard the rumor too. The plague brings terror and unrest. People don't understand what is happening."

"Which is why my services are more sorely needed than ever," said the Inquisitor. He looked out the window. "They'll be ready with the pyres by now." The Inquisitor turned and looked at the heap of Edward Elric on the floor. He went close, squatted down and grabbed his hair, moved his head so that he could see his face. "Half dead anyway," he said. He rose and looked at Roy. "You get to choose his fate. He dies with you tonight, or you leave him to his fate. Either way, by my reckoning, he loses."

"Let him live," said Roy. He swallowed as he looked down at the nearly lifeless body. Maybe he would die here tonight, anyway, and with Alphonse gone, perhaps it would be a mercy.

"You are merciful," said the Inquisitor. He bowed slightly to him. "Was he one of yours, or just some pathetic soul who fell afoul of some alchemists, I wonder?"

"One of mine," said Mustang. "But as you observe, he is through. Let him go in peace. He's just a boy."

"Yes," said the Inquisitor. "I am merciful too." He turned to the guard standing by Edward. "Carry that boy to the site of the execution, so that he might see it."

He watched as the solider picked Edward off the floor and slung him over a shoulder. The other soldier in the room was tasked with removing the noose from the lintel and holding the end of the rope, after tightening the noose around Roy's neck like a leash.

The Inquisitor had meanwhile busied himself with straightening his snow white garments and readying his vestments. He placed over his own shoulders a brocaded mantle and smoothed it down. "There," he said. He looked over at Roy. "Now, are you ready to find out what truly lies beyond this life?"

"Always," said Roy Mustang. He held his head high as the guard shoved him ahead, working hard not to betray his fear. His men would rescue him, if they could. There was always the 'if', however. Life was as unpredictable as the whims of the god the Inquisitor pretended to love. One thing he had to admit, however: he could not trust science to provide mercy.

It just was.

Ed found himself waking from a stupor, bouncing along over someone's broad shoulder like a sack of grain. He saw the ground moving beneath him. His head ached horribly and his stomach roiled and jolted with nausea at each careless step. He lifted his head with some difficulty and attendant pain, and squinted through his swollen eyes to see a vivid sunset, orange and green and dark purple, wickedly beautiful, striping low across the horizon like careless strokes of paint. It took him a moment to recall why the sunset was not welcome today and then he groaned softly. He felt bile rise in his throat and he coughed a bit, but there was no fear of vomiting down the back of the soldier's tunic; his stomach had emptied hours ago.

There were men marching behind them now, and when he raised his head further he saw some of them look at him with narrowed eyes, suspicion or disgust, he was certain. He looked around for Mustang, but could not see him behind. While the soldiers marched in a silent, orderly manner, he could hear murmurs of a crowd growing as he was carried up a small hill. Here there were hundreds of people standing about. The soldier suddenly stopped walking and stood with Ed on his shoulder as if awaiting instructions.

"Put me down!" Ed urged. His voice was harsh and broken, and he hadn't realized until he tried to speak that some of his ribs might be cracked from the abuse he'd endured over the past day. "Please," he said, more humbled, and it wasn't an act. He didn't want to be thrown down again.

"The Inquisitor gave orders for you to watch," said the soldier. "I can't let you wander off."

"Watch what?" Ed wondered, his mind circling several likely possibilities. He hadn't been awake through much of the exchanges between Mustang and the Inquisitor, slipping in and out of what felt like a genuine concussion, and hangover illness from some poison administered by Dante and Hohenheim; he thought it likely that he was ill, having been exposed for hours last night in the rain. He was generally strong but there was only so much he could take, and this was it. And then, the realization hit him, as if he'd been consciously avoiding it for hours, and he had...they had Al. Al was gone, he wasn't here. There was no one to help him. He'd have to help himself, and quick, and try to catch up with those two before they got too far with Al's soul in their pocket. It seemed daunting but it at least gave him a focus to pull himself together.

"Put me down!" he insisted. "I'll watch! I'll watch...I just can't see from here anyway, can I?"

The soldier hesitated and then placed Ed down on one foot. That wasn't much help, and Ed crumpled immediately to the ground. Again he summoned strength for his body and his mind. He just needed a stick to lean on and then he'd be all right. He could not however in present company alchemize a staff from the ground, which would have been the optimal solution. He looked at all the people standing around. This was no time for an alchemic transmutation, that was for sure. He sat and looked up at the pyre that had been built in the clearing at the top of a the mound. Was that...for Mustang? His head spun a little as he tried to focus on whether he had heard that during the conversations today. Yes, yes, very likely. Who else would it be for, unless he had managed to get away.

That hope was dashed when he saw Mustang led to the foot of the mound with the noose round his neck, led like a dog on a leash by a soldier in a white tunic with the cross on the front, a Crusader, just like the lout who had carried him up here and who still hovered above him, fairly confident that Ed wouldn't be making any quick getaways. He looked longingly into the crowd, imagining darting away and weaving through, like he could have if his body were whole. At the same time, he knew that if his body had been whole they wouldn't have been so careless as to let him sit on the ground. Because he had found a sharp stone and a bare patch of dirt, both close enough to him that he could cover his work with his good leg at a moment's notice.

He etched the array hastily into the dirt, then pulled some of his now-ragged tunic over the dirt to hide it. Then he looked about again. He couldn't see the outlaws, any of them, although he strained his bruised eyes looking at the surrounding hills for a sign, one horseman, one fellow, ready to swoop down. They had to come, they had to.

Mustang stood with his head held high but in the light of the torches placed beside him he looked pale, his eyes inscrutable. His bare back, chest and arms were shuddering slightly, he could see. His face was placid but his body wasn't. Ed felt his stomach twist, imagining the pain and fear he must be feeling. He had felt it in the square earlier that day, when he had been beaten to the ground. Helplessness, the worst feeling of all.

The Inquisitor started his ranting as the last bit of color faded from the horizon. Ed could barely process it, his head ached so hard. He concentrated on protecting his array from people stamping by, and from the soldier still guarding him, who kept looking down and moving his big, booted feet around. He had his sword out now, and held it before him, its point to the ground. He could, if Ed gave him reason to, strike Ed's head off in a second. He wasn't afraid though. He had nothing to lose. He just wanted to fuck up the Inquisitor, so Mustang could get away, and then he'd go find Al. And things would be, if not good, better.

"This outlaw and his band have plagued our land with their wicked mayhem for long enough!" Ed heard the Inquisitor declare. He had his arms raised out to his sides, and in his white robe he looked almost like some kind of crazy angel. "We held an abbreviated trial today and he is sentenced. His head will be stricken off, and his body burned before all you witnesses, so that his ghost cannot haunt this town. The man consorts with the devil and uses the devil's art, alchemy. He has murdered thousands with his wicked fire, and blasphemed against God countless times. He has conspired to overthrow our Holy Potentate King Bradley, and bring anarchy and chaos to our lands. No death is a blessing, but his will spare all of us from his privations. His men should know, too, that they are not safe now, when he is gone. They are still outlaws and will be hunted and killed when we find them!"

The crowd murmured and cheered lightly, those who had them shook their torches to menacing affect. Ed scowled at the speech and looked down at his array. He could now barely see it in the dark, and hoped that it retained its integrity. He didn't have much time. Once he activated it, there would be some chaos, and he would have to try to roll out of the way of hundreds of pounding feet, because people would run from what he was about to do.

Some of the soldiers were climbing the mound with their torches now, leaning in to set the pyre alight. The flames made the area suddenly brighter, and the surrounding darkness thicker. Ed hoped hard that the other outlaws were out there. How could they not be?

The Inquisitor raised his hand and a soldier in black with a black hood stepped forward, a black hood over his face, and raised up his broadsword. Ed leaned forward to activate his array at the very moment he heard the whoosh of an arrow, then another, saw them hit their mark, one through the executioner's neck, the other in the Inquisitor's shoulder. He lunged forward and activated the array. The light alone made people around him squawk and pelt away, and then the land heaved, a gentle earthquake, enough to make most people fall to their knees. Fighting the dizziness and pain in his head, Ed scrambled toward Mustang, reaching toward him, but he was already struggling with his ropes and within a moment Hawkeye was there, freeing his hands and handing him his gloves. He turned, looking for the Inquisitor, Ed knew, but the man had already scuttled away with the arrow still in his body. People stampeded around Ed like wild animals, as an explosion sent the wood in the pyre flying in all directions. He fell flat on his face and somebody stepped on his leg as they ran over him. He struggled to pull himself into a ball before someone inadvertently kicked his head in. The ground shook again and there was screaming and chaos around him, the pounding of footsteps and another explosion. His heart pounded in his head and he felt deafened, helpless and lost. He fought it again, dragging his head up to see what was going on, when from behind an arm scooped him up, with such assurance and precision that he knew it must be Armstrong, the only person powerful enough to lift him as if he weighed no more than a puppy.

"Edward Elric," said the big man, holding him in the crook of his arm and pulling him to his enormous pectorals. "Thank goodness we've found you." Armstrong took off at a run, and within moments they were mounted on his huge horse and shooting away over the darkened hills. Ed managed one look back before losing unconsciousness, and what he saw was the Flame Alchemist standing atop the ruins of the pyre and there were men alight, reeling about the hillside in their white tunics like ghosts on fire.

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

It was personal now, if it hadn't been before. It hadn't been, or so he liked to tell himself. But Roy Mustang would not rest until the Inquisitor was dead by his hand, and hung for the crows, until he was wiped off the face of the earth with all his lies and hypocrisy, and his cruelty. He himself had killed probably thirty men that night, and the rest of the outlaws at least a hundred more. The Inquisitor has tripled the price on his head and the price on the heads of all his men. The enemies of the Church and Crown, for they were one, were going to be hunted and cast down now. The Inquisitor lived, although rumor had it he was suffering from his wound.

Mustang hoped that it festered and would poison him, but not kill him before he found him himself.

The Inquisitor had had enough wits left about him to demand that Dublith be razed to the ground as punishment for taking the gold coins in the square. The town's men were lined up in the square the next day and every tenth one was beheaded before the entire assembly. The people of Dublith cursed the outlaws for bringing this disaster on their heads, and the Inquisitor left Dublith a charred mess with only the cathedral left standing.

It was said that his last words for the town were, "The outlaws have brought this upon you."

It was also said that he was held up by two of his attendants and that he left town not astride a horse but in a covered wagon. He was too mean to die easy, Mustang reckoned. But he could die. He was just a man, after all.

The outlaws had taken to the woods and dispersed for two days, evading the Lord's army as they hunted them down. They met again down the river and camped for two weeks to lie low and wait for the Inquisitor to move north again. They licked their wounds and mourned the loss of nineteen of their own that evil night. Mustang could not be sure whether that episode had hurt or strengthened their resolve. It had uncovered many of their weaknesses, and it was their first big failure. They had gotten Mustang back, but that he was taken at all had shaken some of his band to the core. Kimbley's posturing was becoming overbearing, and he consistently hinted that maybe he would be the better leader.

Worse yet, something hit a sore spot. It wasn't until now, until they were camped and idle and waiting to move, that he realized how the Elrics had been mascots of a sort for them all. Alphonse being gone was a great loss. Everyone mourned him for dead, because Mustang had seen the shattered, empty armor with his own eyes. Worse still, Edward had been ill with a fever for a week, and convalescent the next, not his normal combative self but a shuddering wreck who cried in his sleep. The women tended to him, there were few enough of them, and only they had the patience to nurse him. Edward raved like a mad thing. Maria Ross woke Mustang from a fitful sleep early on the third morning.

"He's been asking for you, sir," she said, in response to Mustang's half-asleep mutter to go away, put more rudely, he realized to his shame, when he was fully awake. She pulled on his arm and insisted so he finally forced himself out of his bedroll and made his way to the small tent where Edward had been tossing and turning and burning with fever for days now. He had broken ribs and bruises everywhere, and some cuts, but nothing infected. They thought that the exposure of the night he had been outside might have done it, but others muttered that he was possessed, or cursed, or both, a rumor which disgusted Mustang to the core for its stupidity.

He scowled as he sat down by Elric, as bidden by Maria. She was applying herself to wiping Edward's face and brow and hand with a wet rag, trying to break the fever. The boy's eyes were bright with it, Mustang could see even in the lamplight.

"What do you want to say, Edward?" asked Mustang, modulating his voice between concerned and gruff. He wasn't sure what tone to take.

The boy spoke as if in a dream, and the words were as absurd as the most obscene nightmare fantasy. "They didn't kill Al, he's alive," he said, looking up at Mustang through sodden eyelashes. "They transmuted his soul into a container they could carry and took it away, and they drugged me then left me in town." Edward blinked at him, slowly. "I let them take Al."

Mustang listened, then closed his eyes for a moment. It sounded like it could be true, yet it was unlikely. Still, he knew nothing of soul transmutation. He had sent the Elrics right into the clutches of these mad alchemists, and they had done the worst thing possible.

"I shouldn't have let you go alone," said Mustang firmly, and he believed that.

"You have to help me get him back," said Edward, and his eyes glittered and held him, feverish but not insensate. He wasn't delirious, Mustang realized. In that case, he may just be mad. "It's my fault, I have to save him from them. I don't know what they'll do to him."

Maria had paused in her dousing of Edward's head, and Mustang hesitated momentarily before reaching out and stroking his damp hair back from his brow.

"It's not your fault, Edward," Mustang tried to soothe, but again felt his voice sounded empty and gruff. He wanted to be kind, since it looked as if the boy might be dying.

"It IS. He tried to warn me. He could feel it, but I ignored him...it was just like the first time...you don't know but I'll tell you...we came through the Gate, that's how we got here, we don't belong here, the Gate took his body, and my arm and leg, the Gate sent us here as punishment, and it was all my fault..."

Now he was raving, Mustang thought. This was incoherent. Going through the Gate? He'd only heard of the Gate in passing, an alchemic legend, not proven. The boy had read about it in some book, heard talk of it.

"You can't do anything until you're better," he said, again, gruffly but sincerely, he knew he made a terrible nurse. "Concentrate on mending, and then we'll see what we can do."

Edward shook his head and reached for him with his hand, grabbing his wrist as Mustang withdrew it. "Not good enough," he said, almost gasping. "Promise me."

Mustang looked down at him, then extricated his wrist gently from a grip that was surprisingly firm given how ill the boy was. He stood up, and the boy watched his every move.

"When you're feeling stronger we will discuss the possibilities," Mustang said, ready to take his leave.

"NO!" Edward forced himself up shakily onto his one elbow and pinned him with that gaze of his. "Promise me."

Mustang hesitated to make such a promise. They had work to do, and getting distracted with searching for Dante and her husband could very well prove to be a fool's errand, not to mention not central to their mission.

"God damn it!" Edward swore, then swept his hand aside violently to upend the bowl of water on the ground next to him. He covered his eyes with his hand. "If you don't believe me, if you aren't going to help, get the hell away from me!" He nearly growled, sounding more than ever like the trapped animal Mustang was associating him with.

Mustang cleared his throat, not wishing to leave Edward on these terms, not while the boy was sick and distraught. They'd argued before but he had never dismissed him, his superior and protector, in such a manner. He felt more concerned than insulted, however. The Elrics had been a great help to the outlaws over the past three years.

Maria looked up at him pleadingly, as if she expected him to come up with some kind of plausible answer to this nonsense. No matter how he framed it, to his mind, chasing after Alphonse's soul seemed like a fool's errand. He stood over Edward, who was still shaking with anger, and considered what he should say next. Edward saved him the trouble of composing a response when he removed his hand from his face and looked up at him, eyes flashing with anger.

"I said get out!" he said.

Mustang decided that he didn't need to have the last word right then, and left the tent.

***

They would be moving on the next day. The outlaws weren't waiting for anything but a good distance between themselves and the Inquisitor's army, which their scouts reported were moving north to Central. Rumors of the plague had leaked through to the group as well. They were cross and tired of forest living, some of them, like Kimbley, itching for a fight. Ed was thoroughly sick and tired of all of them. He'd only been up and about for a couple of days, but he could feel how their regard for him had changed. They pitied him now, more than ever. A cripple, an orphan, and now his brother gone too. Mad and raving, lost his wits. What good was his alchemy if he couldn't even protect his brother or himself? He was a burden on the outlaws, a drag. They would be better off without him. He could see it in their eyes, at least, the ones who didn't look away.

Well fuck them, anyway, he said to himself. Not only were they wrong about him, they were wrong about Al, he wasn't dead, he wasn't. Ed knew it with every fiber of his being. Dante and Hohenheim had him, and he was going to get him back.

Limping against his crutch--his ribs still pained him--Ed brought his spare shirt and spare trousers to the stream, where a number of the men were also washing theirs, preparing to move on the next day. Standing nearby, Havoc immediately made a grab to help him but he whipped the clothes away, put down his crutch and got down on the ground, insistent that he would do this by himself. Havoc backed off but he could see from the corner of his eyes, the look Havoc shared with Breda as they bent over their own clothes again, swishing them around in the cool stream. Ed fumbled with his own clothes, the chill of the stream numbing his fingers, cursing under his breath. Al used to do this for him. He was realizing more each day just how much Al had used to do for him. He savaged the clothes in the water, ignoring the concerned stares, then pulled them out and stood up painfully slowly. The others were beating their wet clothes against a cluster of large rocks by the streambed.

Ed considered doing it the hard way, then decided there was no need for that. He still had his alchemy, there was no need to be a martyr. He knelt down and drew an array in the sandy bank, then placed the clothes on it and activated it. After the transmutation he had clothes that were nearly dry, if wrinkled. When he stood up he saw that the looks being thrown his way were a little less pitying. He supposed he needed to remind them that he was still a skilled alchemist. He still had that, at least.

With the clothes over his shoulder he limped back toward his tent, only to find Kimbley on his way.

"Elric," said Kimbley, stepping aside theatrically. "Are you coming on with us?"

Ed looked up at him. He hated the man, and Kimbley knew it. He had never forgiven him for killing Brother Matthew back at St. Amery's, and he never would. That kind of violence was excessive and unnecessary, no matter what. He would never turn into that.

"Why wouldn't I?" Ed tossed his head a bit to get his hair out of his eyes and tried to look fierce. The truth was, Kimbley scared him, but he wouldn't let him know.

"Word has it that you're going off on your own to find your dead brother," said Kimbley breezily. He smirked and Ed would have punched him if he could.

Ed ignored him and tried to walk around him, but Kimbley stepped in his way.

"Things might be changing around here soon," Kimbley went on. "Mustang's going soft on the Inquisitor, everyone knows he's his bastard now. It corrupts the whole purpose of our mission, don't you think?"

Ed scowled. "What're you trying to say? You're going to try and take over? Nobody here is loyal to you." That wasn't strictly true, Ed knew. Most of the band was loyal to Mustang, but there were always a few outliers who seemed to favor Kimbley, including a few alchemists.

"Not take over--split off, if you will." Kimbley spread his hands. "While I know you are likely to be a drag on our movements, there is no denying you're handy on the battlefield. None of my companions has your skill with the earth elements."

Ed scowled harder and then laughed raggedly. "I'm not coming with you if that's what you're asking! Bastard! You killed--"

Kimbley held up his hands again. "Yes, yes, I know, I killed your beloved holy nursemaid, you bring that up constantly and it's been three years. Don't you think it's time to forgive and forget?"

"Fuck you," Ed said, in such a tone that he intended to make clear that this conversation was at an end. "Get out of my way."

Kimbley stepped nimbly aside and clucked his tongue as Ed struggled several steps up the knotty bank with his crutch. "Should you think better on it, consider my offer withdrawn. I suppose it's best we not saddle ourselves with your dead weight, cripple."

Ed's shoulders stiffened and hunched but he told himself to go on and ignore Kimbley's taunts. He wouldn't rise to the bait like a child.

"Besides, now that your brother's gone, who is going to wipe your arse for you?"

Ed flung down his crutch and whipped around, and he was throwing himself upon Kimbley before he knew it. He only realized what he was doing when he felt his fist pounding at Kimbley's face, and he was on the ground, on top of him. Kimbley was struggling to push him off but Ed was animated by strength that he hadn't realized he had just then. He smashed Kimbley's cheek with his knuckles before he felt himself being pulled from behind. He was being held against someone's front, a thick, strong arm across his chest. Ed huffed and hissed as Kimbley rose from the ground and dusted himself off. Ed noticed with satisfaction that he had caused an already-darkening bruise on his face.

It was Breda holding him, and Ed pulled away and staggered forward. Voices were chattering all around him but his head was still spinning. He looked around for his crutch, lost for bearings, until someone handed it to him. Without listening to any more of the chatter he continued his way back to his tent, the little lean-to that had been his sickroom, and began to shove his meager belongings into his burlap knapsack.

Tears of anger and grief stood in his eyes but they wouldn't fall. They never did.

An hour later he was still sitting under the shade of the tent with his knapsack in his lap, listening to the camp buzzing, along with the crickets and the birds. Did he dare ask Mustang for a horse and take off on his own? He had never been alone before, not like this. His wits felt dulled as the few options open to him swam around in his head: strike out alone, or stay with Mustang and the outlaws and wait to cross paths with Dante and Hohenheim again. If he waited, who knew what they would have done with Al's soul in the mean time? Every day lost was a day closer to them attempting some disastrous transmutation. Even if they succeeded with whatever they had in mind for themselves, Al would most likely be lost to him. His mind returned to his least favorite subject, their attempt to transmute their mother. He felt physically ill at the prospect of them trying to transmute Al's soul into another body, or some other horror.

He had no choice, not really. He had to get Al back, or die trying. There was no honor in staying here any longer. It would be nothing but a cheap escape from his responsibilities and he knew it. Feeling more firm in resolve with every passing moment, now that he realized there was no other way, he pushed himself up and pulled the pack over his one shoulder. His ribs still pained him as he walked, and he knew riding a horse would not be comfortable, but none of that mattered. His brother's soul was in some metal jar in a madwoman's pocket and he had to get it back. He hobbled around the camp with his crutch, looking for Mustang. For every one person who sent a sympathetic greeting his way there were two who tried not avoid his eye. Falling upon Kmbley was the last straw, he supposed, to convince everyone that he was mad.

Mustang was not in his own tent, but at the southern edge of the camp conferring with scouts on what they'd learned about the Inquisitor's movements. Ed saw his eyes flash as he saw him coming. He didn't look away, but there was only the two of them, as the scouts took their leave. Mustang approached him, rolling up a map with both his hands.

"I've already heard that you attacked Kimbley," said Mustang drily. "Are you looking to end yourself now?'

Ed stuck out his jaw and tried to think of a retort, but he hadn't the energy to counter Mustang right now. He told himself to stay focused.

"I'm leaving, but I need to take a horse," Ed said.

Mustang crossed his arms and looked down at him. "Leaving? Alone?"

"Yes alone. Who would come with me, do you think?" Ed said challengingly. "They all think I'm insane and chasing a ghost. They're wrong but I don't have time to convince them, or you, otherwise. Besides, even if you believed me..." His voice trailed off. He was about to accuse Mustang of callousness, and yet he realized, Mustang had no obligation to help him at the expense of his all-important mission.

As if confirming his conflict, Mustang's dark eyes flashed again and he huffed. "Listen, Edward...you said a lot of things when you were ill and raving, and most of them made no sense. How can you expect me to take the entire company on a wild goose chase?"

"I wasn't raving," Ed said flatly. "It was all true, everything I told you. Those were things I'd never told anyone here, aside from you."

Mustang shifted his stance, then drew his hand through his hair, stalling, thinking, Ed wasn't sure.

"You are tenacious. All right, listen. We're going to Central Palatinate. If you stick with us, when we get to the capital I'm sure you'll be able to search on your own for those runaway alchemists...if we don't catch up with them on the road. Central is a big town and there are some alchemists in hiding there, you know my friend Hughes has contacts all over the palace and the town, he can show you where they are." He crossed his arms again. "You won't make it on the road alone. This is the best I can do."

Ed began to feel the slight thrum of hope again. It might be his best bet, better than roaming around the countryside on his own. He narrowed his eyes as he looked up at Mustang. "You're not planning on attacking Central, are you? That would be suicide."

Mustang shook his head. "No, no, we'll camp some miles away and a few of us will go into the town in disguise. I still mean to end the Inquisitor." He straightened his almost-military stance even more. "I hope to be able to do it myself, to rid the world of him and his poison." He shook his head and his eyes slid sideways as if addressing an imagined audience. "He's worse than a madman. He's a liar, a dissembler. He kills for expediency and glory, he's a monster."

Ed nodded, partly to show his support, and partly because Mustang himself seemed frighteningly calm when speaking about this killing. He usually expressed regret, even for the Inquisitor's army, but clearly, he was at the end of his own tether. Ed thought he knew how he felt.

"I'm still your man," said Ed. He looked down and then up again before going on. "But you should know, Kimbley--"

"Yes, yes, I know all about Kimbley," said Mustang, his jaw tightening. "Kimbley always was a double-edged sword if there ever was one. A terror on the battlefield, and a horror close to my heart." He half-smiled down at Ed. "I'll deal with him."

"You said that on the night we first met," said Ed, reminding him. "He hasn't changed at all."

"No, he hasn't," Mustang said. "And I know he wants to go off on his own."

"Will you let him?"

Mustang was silent for a moment, then lifted his eyes at the sound of someone approaching. Ed turned to see Hawkeye, her bow in her hands, an arrow nocked, but relaxed, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. He pressed a hand to Ed's shoulder before striding forward to meet her, and conferred with her in confidence. Ed hadn't been much in Mustang's confidence in the past, and he could see now that it would be even less so. Mustang hadn't made any concessions to him; he had convinced him continue to ride with the outlaws because he felt sorry for him. They were going to Central anyway. Still, Mustang was right that perhaps news of Dante and Hohenheim would make its way there.

In any case, he would be moving forward. They'd be moving out tomorrow at dawn. Already he felt part of himself missing and far away, his sustenance, his brother, there were ten days and possibly a hundred miles between them now, his heart felt suspiciously like broken, and yet, he didn't know how to give up, even if he wanted to.

-----------------

The outlaws' trek toward Central Palatinate would take nearly a week, and the summer rains decided to accompany them on their journey. Mustang cursed the rains for slowing their progress; the Inquisitor and his army were now safely ensconced at the palace and the cathedral, there was no chance of meeting them on the road, which was what he had wanted, but the longer they were in Central, the longer the Inquisitor had to recover from his wounds. If he indeed was recovering; they had heard no gossip to the contrary, but that was likely to be the kind of information that would be kept quiet. Besides, the outlaws had to lie low; people had heard what had happened in Dublith and were not entirely pleased to see them in their own towns and villages, fearing the retribution of the Army of the Lord. Even worse, their transmuted "gold" had turned to dust within days of their throwing the largesse. For now, the Outlaws were truly that, and not well loved.

Kimbley was with them yet, but he hung back now with his loyal band of thirty or so, including some prominent alchemists—most notably the powerful Basq Gran. They were strong, and backed by some of the band's most aggressive warriors, men more hungry for blood and gold than for justice. Kimbley made Mustang nervous, but there was no way to expel him from the group without provoking some kind of fight. If he could keep him on their side for this one last effort, and meet their goal of unseating the Inquisitor, he could then feel better about letting him go his own way. He tried to sustain their fragile alliance by giving him the lieutenancy in this particular campaign, but still his stomach twisted when he considered the power he had entrusted him with. He hoped it would hold.

It was hard to believe in god, which was why he did not, but also, it was hard not to. He wished for a moment that he could pray for their success as the seat of Central Palatinate hove into view.

The spires of the Great Cathedral—the Sacred Heart of Amestris-- and the top of the Citadel spiked and glittered on the horizon long before the rest of the town appeared. The capital city of Amestris and seat of the King shone like a crown on its hill, the castle also spiraling up from within the circle of the city's fortifications. It was a walled city, secure and sound, and had never been breached by outlaws nor enemies of any kind. The rest of the town sprawled outside the walls, growing ever further out from the center like roots from a mighty tree. The majority of the outlaws camped far from the start of the sprawl, while another smaller contingent entered the outlying town and fanned out to assume disguise and anonymity. Mustang pulled back his hair and wore a hooded cloak, removing any detail of his costume that might be associated with the Flame Alchemist, and shoved his gloves into the pouch at his waist. He wore his sword at his side and dressed in unobtrusive, dun colors; he might be known for wearing blue, at least, he was in all the wanted posters he had seen of himself.

He would enter Central with only Hawkeye and Havoc for protection. Everyone else was too obtrusive. The Inquisitor had laid eyes on too many of them, and he most certainly could not be seen going about with Edward. When he had parted with him, Edward left his horse and began the walk to the town gate alone. He would arrange for Hughes to meet him and, if he could, give him some useful leads on finding the alchemists who hid in Central--they had already set a time and a place for later tonight. He had to get to Hughes first. The three of them set off on foot, grimly determined. The city loomed imposingly above them, and there was nothing that made Mustang feel so small as the huge gate that hung over their heads as they passed through into the fortified part of the city. No one gave them a second glance. They walked through the narrow, cobbled streets; Mustang had forgotten the reek of a town like this, the filth in the gutters seemed worse than ever before, and he wondered how the city had failed to tackle a problem like that with news of the plague in the air.

If he were king, it wouldn't be like this, he thought, seeing ragged, barefoot children swarming near the gate, waiting for handouts from travelers, and again at the doorways of inns and taverns, begging for coppers from drunken men. The city seemed less opulent than it had the last time he was here, more than a year ago. More shabby, perhaps, more overrun with these barefooted children and their hungry eyes and open hands, and then, the shabby prostitutes lingering on the alleyways that opened into the main square, the old beggar women and their toothless beseechings. How could the Inquisitor live in a palace that looked over all these needy people? He would call him a hypocrite but he wasn't, he'd already admitted that he didn't care, that it was all a sham. It made Mustang's blood boil and filled him with the urge to snap his fingers and bring down the Inquisitor's palace in a moment.

But it was stone, and wouldn't burn.

Not wishing to compromise the safety of Hughes' family, coded messages to Hughes both at home and at the palace secretarial chambers were dispatched via one of the messenger-boys-for-hire who loitered outside the palace gates. The three of them themselves waited in the sunny main square in full view of the Cathedral, casually gathering news from the gossip they overheard as they perused the market stalls. The Inquisitor had returned to the city nearly a week ago but had not been seen or heard from since; he had not appeared at Mass on Sunday, nor at any ceremony. No public proclamations or arrests had been made either, which, given the pattern over the past several years, was a suspicious lack of activity on behalf of the energetic Inquisitor. There was talk that he was ill, that he had been wounded in the South, that he had fallen out of the King's favor, the usual gossip. One striking piece of specious information that fell on their ears was that the Inquisitor had been wounded by one of his own bastards, who was none other than the leader of the outlaw band that had been harassing the Inquisitor for years now. Mustang almost smiled at this; although people treated it as improbably outlandish, it was the closest thing to the truth there was. He had not himself shot the arrow that had pierced the Inquisitor's back; that had been Hawkeye. She reacted to the news with her predictable impassivity, but never had her sure shot found such a worthy target.

They were eating meat pies from a market stall on the edge of the square, blending in with the late-afternoon crowds, when Hughes arrived, the glint of his spectacles catching the sun his only clue under the cowl he wore whenever meeting with Mustang. He did not approach them directly, but passed them and bid them follow with a slight wave of his hand. They trailed some paces behind him to the cheap inns near the riverbank, and followed him into a shambling public house.

It was a good choice; noisy and noisome, crowded with people not likely to be on any sort of business aside from getting drunk. Fancy girls roamed the room and sat on laps, but Mustang waved them away whenever they approached their table. They all kept their hoods up to obscure their faces, and in Hawkeye's case, her femininity, and if anyone found that strange, they didn't comment. Huddled over cups of stale beer and even staler bread and cheese, Mustang asked for the news.

"The Inquisitor lies ill, the wound to his arm has festered," said Hughes, barely suppressing his glee. "The king's physicians have been tending to him night and day this whole week past. It's been put about that the people should pray for his recovery, but attendance at this week's mass was far less than usual, and the mood in the town is...hopeful." Hughes grinned. "He is not well loved, and when a man is down, people will let their thoughts be known. Just two days ago a group of youths was arrested defacing the walls of the Inquisitor's palace. It was said that they would be hung but there was such an outcry that they were merely whipped in the square and sent home."

Mustang nodded. "The Inquisitor must be ill, or he surely would not have been so lenient."

"Yes," Hughes agreed. "It's said that the king feared to create a riot while the Inquisitor lies ill. He has come to rely on him too much to keep order." He took a swig of his beer. "Better yet, the king has already begun seeking his replacement."

Mustang looked up with a shiver of alarm. "We don't need a new one, dammit. If he just dies and is replaced, that isn't what we need. We need for him to be executed and a post of that influence removed forever."

Hughes nodded thoughtfully. "There is some other interesting news about, but it sounds absurd. It's said that the Inquisitor has been consulting alchemists for a cure of his wound."

Mustang leaned forward. "Not so absurd," he said, and revealed his conversations with the Inquisitor.

"He's more corrupt that we supposed," said Hughes.

Havoc's response was more to the point. "The fucking lying bastard!" he said, then colored up when he realized that he might have offended Mustang twofold.

Mustang tried to laugh it off. "I am the Inquisitor's bastard, but I'm not just a bastard, I hope, Havoc."

"No sir," Havoc said, distracting himself with his pipe. "You are an honorable man."

"For a bastard," said Hughes teasingly. Hughes had known for years, but Mustang had not shared the information with any of his men before it became known. It cheapened his mission, he still felt. He would have liked to avenge the innocents the Inquisitor had slaughtered without being known to have an ulterior motive. It made him think less of himself, so there could be no doubt that it would make others question his purity of purpose. Still, that was no matter. The goal was what counted.

"There's a lady at table," reminded Mustang gently. Hawkeye was looking away, leaving the men to swear and joke. "So, what do you counsel, friend?" he asked of Hughes. "I don't want to wait for him to die, I want to draw him from his palace."

"You can bait him," Hughes suggested. "But you know how risky that is, and, besides, I don't think he's exaggerating his wound, or word of the alchemists would not have gotten out. Some new ones, apparently, which has raised the hackles of the alchemists in our quarter."

"New to town?" asked Mustang, feeling a surge of heat to his face.

Hughes nodded again. "That's what they're saying. None of the guild has been consulted, but the Inquisitor does call on their little coven from time to time, to make fake gold and create secret tunnels, that kind of thing, you know. Not one of them particularly skilled with medicine, but suddenly there is word that there are two interlopers who have come to perform some sort of dark miracle...this is much more secret, of course, only among the alchemists and my spies in the Inquisitor's palace."

"Truly," remarked Mustang. "When did they arrive?"

"Just days ago," said Hughes. "Why? Did you lose a couple of your number on the way?"

"I've had alchemists defect before, but these were not mine." He related the story of Dante and the Elrics; Hughes frowned with concern, it was a bad business when told in this way, essentially murder of a child, and the destruction of another, not to mention the hypocrisy of tossing Edward to the lions, so to speak, to cover their tracks.

"Will you meet Edward and tell him what you know? Let him converse with the Guild. I know he's young but he's earned it, they should accept him." Mustang leaned farther over the table and lowered his voice. "And he's desperate. I'm not sure that what he claims happened is entirely true, but I don't believe he's lying, either."

Hughes raised his eyebrows in concern, then nodded, and agreed to meet Edward at an inn in another neighborhood in a few hours' time.

"Thank you," Mustang said, sincerely. He felt a slight lifting of his own spirits. "I feel responsible for what happened. They were such skilled alchemists, and part of the band, and I had made them a promise...I had forgotten how young they were..."

Hughes gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'll help him. As for you, I'll see what else I can find out about what's been going on in the Inquisitor's palace, and meet you tomorrow, late morning, right here."

They finished their stale meal mostly in silence. Mustang was glad to be among friends as his mind circled and whirled with ideas he couldn't grasp. The pieces were not falling into place, and if the Inquisitor died, all of this...four years of this, would have been in vain. He tried not to lose faith in his mission, and only hoped that things would turn their way.

The few times they had met over the years, Hughes had always been kind to him. Edward liked him, but seeing him made him feel sad because Al had liked him even more. They had even once stayed at the Hughes' house outside the city walls, with his wife Gracia and their little daughter, and it had been so pleasant to be in a real home again. In fact, the debt of gratitude at their kindness always left Ed feeling slightly aggrieved and resentful, because he could never repay them, but Al had enjoyed that visit so much that there would always be a place in Ed's heart for them. When Hughes gave him the location of the secret Alchemists Guild, he again felt beyond gratitude and at a loss at how to compensate. Hughes only told him to find his brother, and Ed could have hugged him. He didn't of course, only gave his thanks, and paid for the meal with some of the coin Mustang had given him.

The Alchemists' Guild was not an official organization—at least not any more, though it had been until a hundred years before. Now it was not publicly acknowledged. By necessity they were disorganized and clandestine, and apparently their location changed every so often. At present it was supposed that they were situated in the basement of a rich widow's house just beyond the wall. He had no trouble finding it even though it was already dusk when he arrived there, still hobbling uncomfortably on his wooden leg, with his crutch to support him. Without being able to ride, walking about was tiresome and still vaguely painful in the wake of the beating he'd taken at the hands of the Inquisition. He wondered if his ribs would ever heal, but he couldn't afford to keep still long enough to find out.

The house was part of a terrace of attached houses in a narrow street that curled down the hill leading up to the walled city. Ed could see that this was a street of relative affluence. Although narrow it was clean and bright, candles burning warmly in the windows, and doors opening to servants sweeping out dust. He could also smell cooking, although it was late for the evening meal. He'd eaten with Hughes not long ago, but already his stomach craved more. Some of the houses were bright and freshly painted, he could tell even in the dusky light. Following Hughes' directions, he found the house of the widow who allowed alchemists to meet in her basement. Its stucco front was painted an acorn color and one candle burned in a window. He knocked on the front door and waited.

The woman who opened the door had a severe, questioning expression on her face, as if she expected him to account for himself before they had even exchanged a word. She examined him up and down in a moment.

"Who are you? I expect you have the wrong house," she said, not unkindly, but as a point of fact.

"I am here with a message from Vaselius," he said, repeating the password that Hughes had given him.

"Are you now?" She examined him harder for a moment before stepping aside and beckoning him to come in. He hobbled over the doorstep, unaccountably self-conscious--he was not used to coming into stranger's houses, and a lady's no less. "For Heaven's sake, sit down," she said, gesturing to the shiny oaken bench in the hallway. She put her hands on her hips and looked at him some more. Close up Ed could see that she was mature, maybe forty, he wasn't good with ladies' ages, but she was that sort of age when women were maternal but not quite beyond the bounds of embarrassing him with their bosoms, and hers, plunging out of a tight bodice, was substantial. She had honey-colored hair pulled back and piled on her head. A necklace that held a single large, dazzling garnet bead was at her throat.

"You're a departure from the usual alchemists we get through here," she said, and her hand fingered the garnet bead absently. "If an alchemist you are."

"I am," he said, not wanting to risk offending her by being coy. "I was told that the Guild meets here. Are they here now?"

"They are arriving, the meetings usually begins late." She sat down on the bench with him. "I am Petra. First names, or code names, are all we use here."

"Edward," he said.

"Well Edward, allow me to feed you something while you wait. Come into the kitchens."

He followed her into a square kitchen where a maidservant was cooking at the hearth. He was bid to sit down on the bench at a large oaken table.

"My husband was an alchemist; he used to consult for King Bradley before the Inquisitor took the King's place as ruler of Amestris," said Petra. "I allow my house to be used by the Guild. Ah, here's Sheska, she'll keep you company while you wait."

A girl with brown hair and spectacles came into view, holding a pile of books that she dropped gracelessly onto the table.

"Scheskais the brotherhood's secretary and librarian," said Petra. "She lives here now."

Scheskaglanced at Ed shyly and nodded before saying hello.

"Librarian?" Ed immediately seized on the import of this and gave her his full attention. "You keep all the alchemy books?"

"Some," she answered. "I catalog them, but they are deposited about town and in other places for safe keeping."

Suddenly all thoughts of food were forgotten, despite the aroma coming from the hearth. "Are there any here? That I could look at?" Ed asked eagerly.

Scheskaglanced at Petra.

"I think we should let Marcoh meet you first," said Petra. "As a precaution. We must be careful, you understand. Those texts are forbidden in the realm."

Ed forced himself to settle down and nodded reluctantly. He hadn't had a crack at an alchemical library in nearly a year, when the outlaws had raided Tucker's house. Even then, he had only been able to grab a few before Kimbley had blown up the house, the laboratory and library along with it.

He was fed, which distracted him somewhat from the books, and chatted with Scheskawhile they ate. She was particularly animated when they spoke about the books; that at least was allowed. She knew off the top of her head which volumes the Guild had collected, and in which cache they were stored. While seated in the kitchen, Ed could hear people arriving at the front door, in small groups or one by one, but they did not come into the room and their footsteps disappeared somewhere else inside the house. Finally, Petra came to lead him to the meeting. He followed her through the narrow house as she held a candle to light his way. They stopped at an opened door that led down a flight of stone stairs, the golden glow of candlelight could be seen and the murmurs of men could be heard below. The stairway was dark so Petra led him down, holding the candle, as he made his way down perilously steep and narrow stone steps into the cellar.

The room was cramped and cool, a stone chamber, and a small table around which crowded a dozen people, men and two women. A ceramic pitcher and some brass cups crowded the table, along with a small stack of books, which Ed's eyes immediately went to before he surveyed the faces in the room.

Petra motioned that he should go forward. "This is Edward," she said. "An alchemist. I'll leave you to discover his purpose. If he proves unreliable, please act with discretion and restraint. My maid and I just cleaned this room after last week's unpleasant meeting."

An older man, face serious and craggy, nodded and stood. "I'm Marcoh, welcome brother alchemist Edward. Please sit down and tell us your tale."

Ed moved forward and took the nearest seat, hastily vacated by one of the guildsmen. "My tale," he said. He wondered just how much of it to tell. He decided less was more, at least until he knew these men and their trustworthiness. "I have spent these three years past riding with the Outlaws."

There were some nods of approval around the room, but a distinct lack of back-slapping, which is what he might have expected. However, come to think of it, if these men weren't riding with Mustang and the Outlaws, they must have their reasons.

Marcoh leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His dark hair nearly obscured his small eyes. His face was so lined it was not easy to read.

"And what has driven you to leave their protection and seek us?"

Ed was slightly annoyed that they assumed he needed the protection of the outlaws, although it was partially true. "I am looking for two alchemists I met in Dublith," he said. "A husband and wife, they go by the names of Von Hohenheim and Dante."

Marcoh leaned back and rubbed at his chin, looking around the room at his fellows.

"And why do you want to find them, exactly?"

Here was where Ed was not quite sure whether he should divulge all. He looked around the room, trying to read faces. They were all alchemists, but would they believe him? Mustang had known him for three years and barely did.

"They took something from me and I mean to get it back," he finally said.

"Something important, I take it," said Marcoh.

"Yes."

Marcoh looked at his fellows again and then back to Ed. "Is it revenge you want?" he asked.

"Revenge?" He had barely thought of revenge in reference to those two; all he wanted was Al's soul returned to him.

"Did they do that to your body?" Marcoh asked. "Did they attempt human transmutation with you?"

Ed almost started, and the others in the room began to murmur. How could the man get so close to the truth with only one guess?

"No, no," Ed said, waving his hands in denial. "Although they mean to...but not with me. They....they have my brother, also an alchemist."

Marcoh nodded. "I see." He sat back in his chair. "We had the pleasure of having Von Hohenheim among us several weeks ago, he is a most accomplished alchemist. He has returned to Central two days past, with his wife, although they haven't come to see us. He has been avoiding us so far. It's rumored that he has been seen going into the Inquisitor's palace."

"But why would they go there?"

Another alchemist answered this time, a man younger than Marcoh, in the shabby robes of a monk, although his head was not shaved. "We have known that the Inquisitor consults alchemists regularly enough. We have had messengers from him ourselves, some of us. He suffers the Guild to exist in exchange for a little help now and then."

"But--but he kills alchemists! How can you--?" Speechless, Ed leaned forward.

"Some of us don't agree with the outlaws' methods," explained Marcoh. "The violence--"

"But the Inquisitor--he's the violent one, executing innocent people!"

"I don't agree with his methods either, but it is not our place to interfere with the affairs of the church, and the king. The Guild is pledged to use alchemy for the betterment of mankind...and to stay out of politics."

"But--" Ed spluttered, trying to find words. "The outlaws are working to free Amestris from the bonds of superstition and the church's treachery!"

A new voice piped up, a woman of middle age with a serene, unlined face and thick, graying hair. Her voice was as calm as her expression. "The outlaws have their goals, we have ours. They are not entirely separate, our methods are not to destroy, but to effect change from within."

"Within the church? But the Inquisitor is entirely corrupt!" Ed's head was nearly spinning--this was all he knew, he felt the outlaws' aim to be true and just, it's what he knew, it was all he had known since he was thirteen years old.

"That may well be," said the woman. "But sometimes it is better to partner with power than to attempt to topple it in vain. The Inquisitor uses the services of alchemists of the Guild from time to time. In exchange, he leaves us at liberty, and we keep our vocation behind closed doors."

"But then how can you help people, bring science and enlightenment to the world? I know the future, I know that things need to really change!"

He hadn't meant to let that slip, but it didn't seem to impress his audience overmuch. They probably thought him an overexcited child, because no one pressed him.

Again the woman spoke. "And things will change. Our time is coming."

"Thanks to the outlaws!" Ed declared. "They'll rid Amestris of the Inquisitor for you, and then you'll reap the benefits."

Marcoh shook his head. "The outlaws provoke civil war. The deaths they cause outnumber the lives they save."

"I'd like to hear your plan, then!" Ed said challengingly. "Is it anything other than sitting around?"

"We gather knowledge, we develop our techniques. We have a project, and when it is complete, we will use it to stop the Inquisitor, in due time."

"What is it?"

"We can't tell you that."

"Of course you can't," Ed said bitterly. "Don't worry, I don't expect you to. I didn't come here to practice alchemy with you...I may be young but I'm experienced. You've told me that Hohenheim and Dante are here and that's what I wanted to know, so thanks." He clenched his fist as he spoke, he felt frustrated and alone. He was foolish to think it, but he had been half hoping that they would offer to help him.

Marcoh and the others nodded.

"I'm glad that we could be of some help to a fellow alchemist." Marcoh rose to show that his participation in this meeting was at an end. Ed left the small cellar, glad to be rid of the stifling room, and made his way up the darkened stairs. Once on the main floor, he returned to the kitchen, looking for Petra and, even more urgently, Sheska. They were at the kitchen table, talking behind a pile of Sheska's books.

"Ladies," he said formally. He had never quite gotten used to that polite address.

"So did you get what you came for?" asked Petra. Her hand played with the stone bead at her throat again. For reasons unknown, Ed could not take his eyes from it. It was not a beautiful stone, and yet, it was so unusual, and it almost seemed to demand his attention.

"Yes, thank you," he said stiffly.

"Would you like a cup of tea before you go?"

"Please." He approached the table, grateful for an excuse to sit down with the shy Scheska, who peeked at him over the stack of books. He sat down across from her.

"Maybe you can help me too," he said conversationally.

"Oh?" she asked, with interest.

"I'm looking for a book...Caelius Magnus?"

"Caelius Magnus," she repeated, and she squinted as if viewing a library in her head. "Yes, yes, we have a Caelius Magnus. And you're in luck, it's shelved in this very house!"

"Is it? Could I...do you think I could borrow it?"

Scheska looked at him as if he were mad. "No you can't borrow it. Only members of the Guild are allowed to take the books."

"Then do you think I could look at it here?"

Scheska looked over her shoulder at Petra, who was taking a tea pot off the hearth.

"I don't see why not," said Petra. "But you have to look at it right here, in this room."

"Yes ma'am," said Ed, unable to suppress a grin. "I'll read it right here."

Scheska's head was down on the table and she was gently breathing in sleep. Petra had gone to bed hours ago, and the Guild members had also departed, but Ed stayed awake until dawn poring through Caelius Magnus. It was written in the Middle Tongue and replete with Latin as well. He understood alchemical Latin well enough but had never read a text with this much of it. Caelius did not make his work easy for him. The man had been dead for over three hundred years, but his knowledge of alchemy had far surpassed that of any of the alchemists he had known in this time. He surmised that the legendary alchemist's investigations into human transmutation were too extreme for the alchemists of this time; he wondered if any of his hand-copied texts would even have survived into the future.

It wasn't until nearly dawn that he found it, the Philosopher's Stone, and how to make one. Caelius Magnus said it plain, but, with his heart pounding in his chest as he turned the page, he now knew why everyone else shied away from it. It required dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of human lives to create. Its properties amplified alchemic transmutations, but the stone would lose its power over time and use. Caelius described it, and a diagram was drawn. A clear, garnet-colored crystal that heated quickly when held in the hand. Caelius had never made one, or so he claimed, but he spoke with an authority that suggested that he probably had, he just wouldn't commit it to writing, at least not unencoded.

Perhaps Scheska had one of his note books among the society's library, and he reached across the table to poke at her arm before thinking better of it. What would be the point? He wouldn't be able to make one, and he didn't really want to. That was a lie. He did want to. He just couldn't, he couldn't cause the deaths of others for his own purposes. Even to save Al--his brother wouldn't want it. When he got Al's soul back, he would attach it to another armor, and they would have to find another way. The Philosopher's Stone was a dead end. He closed the book, and then his aching eyes. Tears of frustration swam behind his eyelids and he squeezed them tight, laying his head down on the book. It wasn't the answer he wanted. Maybe he could appeal to the Guild again, maybe they knew a way, maybe they knew how to summon a Gate. He felt out of his depth.

For now, he had to put this aside and concentrate on retrieving Al's soul from Dante and Hohenheim. If they could be found at the Inquisitor's palace, then he had to go there. He rested his head a bit, it throbbed from fatigue and reading and thinking too much. He only hoped that he could summon strength enough to put an end to this today. Alone as he was, he had nothing but hope and faith in his own abilities. He had been caught off guard by Dante and Hohenheim before; he wouldn't let that happen again.

Dawn had barely broken before the maidservant came into the kitchen, waking Scheska as she began to prepare the breakfast. Scheska looked at Ed blearily through her spectacles before taking them off and rubbing at her eyes.

"So did you get a chance to read the Caelius Magnus?" she asked.

Ed nodded and pushed the book across the table toward her.

"You didn't learn what you needed?"

"Not exactly," he said, trying not to let his disappointment and frustration show.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking up the book and placing it on top of one of the stacks in front of her.

"It's not your fault," Ed said. "Thanks for letting me see it, anyway."

Scheska nodded and smiled shyly again. She rose from the table to help the maidservant, and returned to the table with some toasted bread, cheese, honey and hot tea. Ed took the food gratefully. Hungry as he was, he noticed Scheska watching him eat with unabashed curiosity.

"What?" he asked, inadvertently spraying breadcrumbs from his mouth. She winced and he put down the bread and ran his sleeve across his mouth. "Sorry. I know I could have better manners. All that time I spent with the outlaws, I guess, hasn't improved them any."

Scheska's face peered over the stack of books, at him as she sipped her tea and nodded. "Yes, but...it's not just that you chew with your mouth open, if you don't mind my saying. Your speech is a bit strange. Here in Central Palatinate I hear speech from all over Amestris, but never a tongue like yours."

Ed smiled despite his exhaustion. "Casual?" he said. "So I've been told. Raised by wolves, mainly," he said, repeating the joke Brother Matthew often used to make to him.

"Really?" she asked, her eyes widening.

He grinned. "Yeah, a she wolf raised my brother and me, I have no idea how we came to be in the woods."

"Then how did you learn to speak the human tongue at all?" she asked, fascinated.

"The wolf was killed by a hunter when we were still small, and we wandered around the forest for weeks before a monk found us and took us in."

Scheska's mouth was an o. "I've never heard anything like that to be true! How interesting!" She leaned forward, pushing a stack of books aside. "Tell me more, what was it like living with the wolves?"

The teasing would become a lie if it went on too long. "I'm only teasing, it's not true. The only true part is monks found us after our mother died...but she wasn't a wolf."

Scheska's face fell. "Oh."

"I'm sorry for teasing you."

She blushed the deeper and sat back.

"I'm sorry if I have offended you," he said, attempting a more formal apology.

She looked up at him. "No, not at all, I just find you interesting, that's all." Still flustered, she blushed and lowered her eyes. For his part, Ed had not been around a girl his age for so long that it only then occurred to him that they could perhaps be flirting with each other. He was most definitely not--he would have no idea how. But she was blushing. Was it because she had just admitted interest in him? Was it because he was bizarre and exotic, or because she actually, well, liked him? He found himself become slightly flustered too and suddenly his plate became so fascinating he had to stare into it.

"You must think I'm very silly for believing you," she said finally.

"No--listen, like I said, some of it is true. Our mother died...then we were in an accident and monks found my brother and me and saved our lives, we stayed with them for two years, and then we joined the outlaws. That's the whole story."

She nodded, accepting his apology along with a slightly elaborated version of the story. "The accident where you lost your limbs?"

He nodded.

"Was it...an alchemic accident?" she asked, raising her eyes to meet his.

He nodded again.

"Alchemy frightens me," she then declared, pushing the two stacks of books together. "I love books, and Petra took me in and that's the kind of books they have here, but frankly, most of those alchemists and their doings are..." She leveled her gaze at Ed.

"What?"

"Strange, that's all," she said. She stood up. "More tea?'

She took the proffered cup from his hand and went to the hearth to pour more tea from the kettle. When she returned to the table she sat on the bench next to Edward, leaving only a few inches between them. She leaned closer, conspiratorially, and spoke in a whisper.

"Petra's husband died in an alchemic accident," she said. "In the basement of this very house."

"Did he?" Ed asked, his skin tingling. "What was he working on? Do you know?"

She shook her head but leaned closer. "I have heard perhaps human transmutation, what little I know about it from the books leads me to believe that might be true."

Ed nodded. "Do you hear the Guild speaking about it? They pretended to know little about it to me."

"They don't trust outsiders for a while, but I've seen new members gain their confidence. If you want to join them, you must come regularly." Here she pulled away and sat up straight, looking at him hopefully. "Will you come again, do you think?"

"I--I don't know," he stammered. The way she asked that it almost sounded like she actually cared whether he did.

Petra saved him from any further embarrassment by arriving in the kitchen. She bid them good morning.

"Have you two been up over the books all night long?" She came closer to the table and peered at them.

"I slept at the table, waiting for Edward to finish," said Scheska. "But he's been up all night."

"And he looks the worse for it," observed Petra. As she stood across the table Ed's eye fell on the red stone wrapped in cord that hung at her throat and suddenly his heart slammed against his ribs, all else forgotten.

"Is that....is that a philosopher's stone?" he asked, his voice shaking, as he brought his own hand up to his neck, touching the place where the stone lay against her skin.

Her face froze in the expression of pleasant consternation she had been employing a moment before. She blinked and seemed to think for another second after that before saying, "What? I've never heard of such a thing. This is a simple garnet, a trinket from my husband. He did love the color red so I wear it to remember him by."

Ed couldn't tear his eyes from the stone. "Oh. I see." He attempted a hollow laugh. "Funny, I was just reading about it in a book and of course now I've got it on my mind...."

"Yes, I see," Petra nodded. Her hand closed protectively around the stone. "It's just a garnet...."

Scheska pinched Ed's thigh under the table. He tried not to jump.

"Yes, well, I guess I should be going." He put his good leg over the bench and then pulled the wooden leg after it with his hand, then pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you so much for your hospitality. I hope I can come again? Does the Guild meet every night?"

Petra regarded him, her eyes now half closed and calculating. He was no longer quite so innocent in her view, he now knew, and hoped that he hadn't blown it all by his ill-placed question. He reached for his crutch, leaning against the wall, and his small knapsack, at this point all his worldly possessions, and prepared himself to leave.

"Yes, yes," said Petra, almost impatiently. "You are welcome to come back. The Guild meets most nights, but they do not keep a proper schedule. You are welcome to come by and see."

He bowed to her, and then to Scheska.

"Thank you, ladies," he said in his most polite tone. Petra saw him to the door, and he didn't think it a bad idea to seem slightly more feeble than he felt--although he was very tired--and he intentionally leant on the door frame before stepping outside.

"Take care of yourself," said Petra, as he turned to nod one last goodbye. "Central is a big city."

"Thanks again," Ed said, setting off down the lane. When he peeked back over his shoulder, Petra was still there, watching him. Whether it was out of concern or mistrust, he had no clue.

Mustang's meeting with Hughes at mid-morning revealed no new information aside from a confirmation that the two new alchemists were indeed commissioned with the task of restoring the ailing Inquisitor to health. Hughes had heard the wound was festering, and he had begun to cough blood. The king's physicians were failing to attain improvement. The King had gone to visit the Inquisitor in his palace early this morning, presumably to discuss a successor should the Inquisitor die.

"There's more," Hughes said, as if reluctant to deliver the news. "We've had word that there is to be a new wave of arrests made in Central and the surrounding area."

"More heretics? Surely they've gotten them all by now."

"Heretics, beggars, criminals, whoever they can round up. It looks like they want to put on another big show tonight to cow the populace."

"Is the Inquisitor in any condition to conduct one of his performances?"

Hughes shrugged. "Word has it that he's going to come out."

Mustang did not need to chew on this information for long. "We have to act now."

Hughes nodded. "Tell me what you need."

"I'll make sure my men funnel into the walls over the course of the day and night, one by one and two by two, so as not to attract attention. If you can, get me whatever new intelligence you find. I or one of my men will check back here every third hour from now. We'll be ready when he comes out tomorrow."

"And then what?" Hughes asked.

"And then, I end him. Preferably in the square in front of all."

"That will also be the end of you."

Mustang nodded again, curtly this time. "If that is how it has to be. Just, please...don't let it be put about that I was his bastard. The gossip will overwhelm my purpose."

"Your men know, though, don't they? Some others too."

"True, but the less it gets about, the better." Mustang folded his hands under his chin and gazed at his friend's face. "Am I on a suicide mission?"

Hughes smiled and shook his head. "Perhaps you are headed for a most ironic ending. Don't let yourself be martyred in the square."

Laughing gently, Mustang reached across the table and squeezed his friend's hand.

"Don't let them make me a saint, whatever you do," he said. He was only half joking, and Hughes did not laugh.

Ed approached the main square that was faced by the Sacred Heart of Amestris on its Eastern side, and the Inquisitor's palace at the South. In front of the palace was laid a tremendous red carpet. He stayed in the shade of a building at the northwestern corner; the early summer sun was hot, and he also wanted to not be noticed as he contemplated the Inquisitor's palace. It wasn't as grand as it sounded, merely a wide town house, stucco, stone and timber, but with what looked to be fine leaded glass in all its front windows. There were guards on either side of the double doors, at the top of a flight of ten or so stone steps. His heart began to pound in his head. Dante and Hohenheim were in there, and Al. He studied the building for a while, at a loss to devise a way to get in, aside from some potentially noisy alchemy at the back, he could see no other way. He was also fairly certain that there would be guards at the back as well.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as a hand closed over his shoulder. He spun around, flailing as he lost his balance. Strong hands caught him and kept him upright, his panic barely had time to register before it fled. It was Mustang, his face shadowed by a hooded cloak.

"What have you learned?" Mustang asked, inclining his head toward the Inquisitor's palace.

"Not much besides I can't see how to get in without notice."

"Hmm." Mustang turned to study the building. "Hughes says there is going to be an inquisition tonight, here in the square."

"So you can get him then."

"I will."

Ed nodded. "No more playing games, huh? You get him no matter what?"

"That's right." Mustang's voice was almost serene with certitude.

Ed let a moment of silence pass.

"I met with the Alchemists Guild last night," he said at length. "They said that Hohenheim and Dante have been consulting with the Inquisitor."

"Are they now?" Despite the bustle around them, Ed heard Mustang's jaw clench. "Hughes told me of this, but he didn't have their names."

"It's them."

"I see."

"They know how to do human transmutation," Ed said. Their eyes were still posted on the palace. The door opened and a servant or messenger came out and crossed the square.

Mustang was silent for a moment, then unloaded his own bit of intelligence. "Hughes says they are rounding people up for a new inquisition tomorrow, they want a large number to make a big show. Perhaps they are planning on reminding the public of the church's power, since the Inquisitor is known to be ill."

Ed chewed this over for a moment. His hand unconsciously went to his throat. "Or...they know how to make a philosopher's stone." He turned to look at Mustang. "They know. They implied it to me. They just needed the ingredients...the people."

"What?" Mustang sounded alarmed and confused. "What are you talking about?'

"A philosopher's stone--"

"--that's just a legend---"

"--no, it isn't! I read it in Caelius Magnus's book--"

"--you had a Caelius--"

"--yes, in my hand! Shut up and listen for moment--I read it, last night, the Guild has a copy. Caelius described it all, and you need souls, hundreds of them."

Mustang froze, drew back, brought his hand to his chin and narrowed his eyes at the palace. "I think I know what they're doing...the alchemists, and the Inquisitor."

"You think they've convinced him to help them make a stone?" Ed asked.

"Perhaps...but I think it more likely that they've convinced him that they can save his life by doing a human transmutation."

"So they want the stone for that? Why would they want to waste it on him? Those two are only interested in themselves, I heard them mock the Inquisitor myself."

"Exactly." Mustang trained his gaze on him again. His shaded eyes glittered even under the cowl.

Ed smirked. "They're tricking him."

Mustang nodded. "I think so."

"They want to make a stone and they're letting him think they're going to heal him. He doesn't know anything about alchemy."

"No he doesn't, and the more fool he, because he's playing with fire. They'll betray him." Mustang drew up to his full height now, and Ed could see his confidence return. "We'll have time...before they attempt their transmutation, the outlaws will break it up, and I'll take his head off."

Ed admired his resolve and was in awe for a moment, for Mustang looked every bit the commander, even without his troops.

"And they'll have to come out to do their transmutation, and I'll get Al back from them." He knew that he sounded less sure. Weeks had passed, who knew if Al was even with them anymore, if they had done something to him, attached his soul to another armor, another person, or lost it all together? But he swallowed his doubt and focused on the potential for success.

"I'll try to get them for you, too," Mustang said.

"You'll have your hands full," said Ed. "Leave them to me."

While Mustang set off to send word to gather the outlaws, Ed made the arduous walk back to Petra's house beyond the city walls. They couldn't be seen together even though they were headed in the same direction, and parted ways at the square. Ed felt immediately lonely again. Unused to being alone, he once again felt the painful loss of Al's familiar and comforting presence, not to mention that he would have carried him through the streets of the town on many of these trips. Ed's body ached, still not healed from his illness, the beating from the Inquisitor, and the general wear and tear of walking with the awkward wooden leg and the crutch. It was hot and his body itched and nearly burned, he longed to pull off the layers of clothing he wore but he didn't want to advertise himself, knowing how recognizable he would be if anyone were to be looking for him. It stood to reason that the Inquisitor would be looking for Mustang and any of his men, of which he was known to be one.

He was back at the widow Petra's house not long after noon. There was nothing else to do but beg her for the stone.

It was Scheska who answered the door, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Back so soon?" she asked, reddening. "Why are you back so soon? The Guild won't meet again until late tonight, if they even come at all, I haven't heard..." she babbled.

"I've come to see Miss Petra. Is she here?" He entered as Scheska stepped aside. Scheska nodded and motioned for him to sit on the bench once again.

"I'll go get her."

Petra came quickly and invited him into the kitchen, but Ed stood and shook his head, ready to relay his need with urgency.

"Listen, the Inquisitor and the alchemists he has working for him are planning a huge inquisition tonight, and they are going to kill hundreds of people. I need to try and stop them, and I need that philosopher's stone you have."

Petra looked at him with surprise and pretended innocence but her hand went to the stone at her neck just the same.

"I know what that is, and I need it. They're going to try to make one, I might be able to stop them if I have one myself. They're powerful, you have to understand, they're not ordinary--"

He was interrupted by a banging at the door, and Scheska opened it to let in the monk-like alchemist who had been at the meeting the night before. He was breathing heavily as if he had just run.

"Marcoh's been arrested," he said, panting, "along with Patricia. The Inquisitor's having the Guild members arrested for an inquisition, and they are rounding up innocents in the streets." He left quickly to continue warning the other Guild members.

"I told you!" Ed said. "We have to stop them, please, give me the stone."

Petra's hand wrapped around it. "How will having this help you?"

"It amplifies alchemic transmutations, I can use it to stop Hohenheim and Dante, and help the outlaws stop the Inquisitor. We have to, they're planning on killing hundreds of people, don't you get it?"

Petra closed her eyes, deliberating, then she tugged at the necklace, pulled it off, and looked at the stone in her hand, before handing it to Ed.

"Use it well," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "My husband sacrificed his life to make it."

Ed's hand closed over it. "I will," he said. "I promise."

By midnight, most of the outlaws had filtered into town. The rest would come at dawn when the gates were opened again. The Sacred Heart's bell tower had already proclaimed the day's inquisition, and proclamations had been pasted against the walls of buildings, directing the populace to view the latest round of executions of damned souls at sunset. Mustang, still skulking about town in his disguise, had already made contact with his key people, making plans for surrounding the square as soon as the Inquisitor showed himself. They would not be cautious today. Innocent bystanders may be killed, but an end would be put to the Inquisitor once and for all, and his evil deeds revealed. Mustang had the speech composed in his head, hoping he had time to deliver it before it was lopped off his neck by one of the Inquisitor's soldiers. The people had to know, and to be set free they had to realize that the Inquisitor was using and enslaving their minds to gain political power. He wondered if the King would show his face at the event, and half hoped that he would, so he would see.

As he slipped through the streets thronged with people approaching the square, he heard the usual murmurs of trepidation and excitement. As always, people were torn between being frightened and thrilled. Was that the purpose of faith? To enthrall and terrify? That was what the church was like now. He wondered if it were ever so, if there ever was a gentler time, when each believer was blessed and spoke to God, felt God in their heart. That was what he had been taught as a child, but at the same time they were told people were too evil and stupid to behave on their own, so the church had to tell them how to be, and would care for them, if only they would be good sheep and follow the lead of the Inquisitor.

He reached the square and melded with the crowds, looking around for the postings of his colleagues. He spotted the top of Havoc's blond head in the crowd, and saw a sparkle where Armstrong had hidden himself on the roof of one of the buildings edging the square. Others were in windows, and threaded throughout the crowd. He couldn't see Kimbley, and felt a vague feeling of worry at not knowing his whereabouts. He couldn't be distracted by him now. He felt tension coil in his every nerve. This was it, failure meant death, and so did success. There would be no other chances.

Once he drew closer to the center of town, the crowds grew so thick that Ed found himself in trouble, being jostled by people on either side. It was difficult to hold or correct his pace, and he nearly slipped on the cobbled lanes many times as he was shoved to one side or the other. Much to his annoyance, those who were in a holy mood in honor of the day's inquisition gave him kindly greetings or offered him coppers, an irritating byproduct of any holiday. It irritated him no end that people assumed that every cripple was a beggar, and he slapped them away in annoyance.

Still, he didn't have Al to part crowds for him, and he had to be in front. The throng was dozens thick by the time he reached the square, and all he could do was use his crutch as a bludgeon to push his way into the crowd. People jostled and pushed back but he squeezed through to the front and looked around, his heart already racing with anticipation of seeing Hohenheim and Dante. He searched the crowd for them, but could not find their faces. He hoped that they would come out with the Inquisitor.

For the hundredth time that day, he placed his hand in the pouch at his hip, feeling for the stone. There it was still. He thrilled when he touched it, with both fear and expectation. His mind raced over the words of Caelius Magnus and his arrays, reviewing how to use it to amplify a transmutation. If done with the proper restraint, the stone would remain whole, although its power was sapped with each use. He would use it to stop his ancestors, take Al back from them, then use it again to summon the gate and restore Al to his body. A simple plan with a million ways to go wrong, not least of which, he had only his instincts and his memory of what he had read in a book the night before. The stone would offset the sacrifice needed to get into the gate, and restore Al's body, and then they would pass through it. If not, they would return here, but Al would be whole. He could live with that much more easily than the other possibility, that he pass through the gate alone.

He refused to entertain the possibility that Al might be gone any longer. There was no point in assuming that. If he was, he would destroy Hohenheim and Dante without a second thought.

The sun beat down at high noon, baking the square. The crowd reeked of sweat and heat, becoming restive as they waited. The clocktower showed that the quarter hour had passed, then the bell tower clanged once to confirm that passage. At last, the doors to the Inquisitor's palace opened.

First came several soldiers in their snow-white tunics with red crosses, holding their spears. Next, the Inquisitor emerged. Ed squinted to see him, he looked hunched and smaller inside his red robes and mitre, and he was supported on one side by a priest in black garb. It was plain to see that the rumors of his illness were true, Ed was gratified to note. He walked slowly to keep himself steady, and was trying not to lean heavily on the priest at his side. His injured arm was tucked into his robes Several acolytes and more soldiers followed solemnly, but no sign of Dante and Hohenheim. Ed's heartbeat accelerated. Where the hell were they? His mind could not process the possibility that everyone had been mistaken, that they were not here at all. He scanned the crowd frantically again, straining to discern their faces in the sea of people, fighting despair. His limbs began to feel almost numb, and his face burned, his heart pounded in his head, he feared that he might faint.

And then...he saw her first, the dark hair, the red mouth, a flash of her oddly white teeth as she leant over and spoke to her husband. They were there, they had crept through the crowd and taken up a position along the edge, at the right hand of the Inquisitor. They were directly across from him, and Ed narrowed his eyes as they whispered to each other, almost frantically. It was clear they had plans, that they were not mere observers. Ed even saw Dante point to a spot on the square, and then gesture toward the cathedral.

When would be the right time to get to them? He strained to see what they were holding, wearing, where Al's soul could be, and if the flask was not on them, then where was it and how would he get it? There was no chance he could get across the square now, not when the crowd was hushing and all eyes were on the Inquisitor. He raised his arms and his voice rang out. It was harsher, raspier, than before, strained by his illness, Ed could definitely detect his loss of strength, his suffering, reflected in its lesser volume. It still carried, however, loud enough to reach the ears of those ringing the square, and the buildings surrounding them provided an echo chamber as he began his speech.

"Brothers and sisters in the Lord," he began. "I bring you here today to ask you to bear witness to the treachery of so many in our midst, the rot at the heart of our blessed realm. We will cut it out today, that rot, and cleanse the soul of our country as well as our own souls, and bring us closer to the Paradise our blessed King will bring to us in the days, months, and years to come.

"You may have heard that the plague is sweeping down from the Drachman barbarians in the North, and from Xing in the East. It is coming, and with it, many souls will be carried away, some to paradise, some to hell. Be not afraid, and do not lose heart and faith in our King and our Lord. The plague is penance for our wickedness, and it is god's will."

The crowd murmured, and Ed could feel the stiffness of fear spread around him like a chill. Promise of a plague did not frighten him at the moment, but it was the greatest nightmare of the people of this time, and he could feel them quiver around him at the dire promises made by the Inquisitor.

"This purge today, this inquisition of hundreds, will help cleanse our hearts and our souls, and will, we hope bring some mercy from God when the plague comes to us. Perhaps even this act, brutal and merciless though it may seem, will help spare our city from the pestilence, and the Angel of Death will pass us by."

The crowd grew animated now, yes yes yes, murder hundreds of people and the Lord will spare us! Ed could barely contain his contempt at how easily the majority of them were manipulated, but when he looked around, he saw some faces, less convinced, grow dark and concerned at the promise of the scale of slaughter.

"To this end, we will behead five hundred wicked souls bound for hell here today, and anoint the gates of Central with their blood, like our ancestors did in ancient days to appease the Angel of Death."

The Inquisitor now had to take a rather obvious pause to gather his strength, and was even brought some water by one of the acolytes. This was unprecedented, in Ed's experience, and he was relieved that Mustang's intelligence on this front had been correct. After his rest, the Inquisitor made a gesture and heads turned toward the Cathedral. From around its side came a column of the Inquisitor's soldiers, and the crowd parted to make way for them. In their wake they dragged hundreds of people, some chained or bound together with rope, some free but being poked along by spears and swords, as they were herded into the square. Although this was the largest town square in Amestris, the crowd of prisoners nearly filled one end of it. The Inquisitor watched them as they were pulled, pushed and dragged into his sight.

The crowd murmured again, some jeers were squawked and some people began to throw things at the hapless prisoners, but most of the assembly was drawn and hushed, waiting to see what would happen next. Ed could barely see their terrified faces, they seemed more like a mass of terrified, miserable humanity, hardly distinguishable as individuals at all. They were tied together, bound by their ill luck. Still, obviously, the Inquisitor had his favorites. Some of these had probably been scraped off the streets, but others….familiar wolfish, golden eyes flashed from the front of the crowd of prisoners, a tangled mass of dark hair tossed aside, and he saw, with his hands bound behind his back and a rope around his neck, held by his very own guard…Kimbley.

Ed was not surprised to see that Kimbley looked more excited than scared. He told himself that only a madman would be wearing an expression that amounted to glee while his head was on the block, but Kimbley was smirking and looking quite pleased with himself. Maybe he was certain that the outlaws would save him in time.

"Here they are, the sinners who have lived amongst us, bringing ill luck and bad omens, drawing the black death toward us with their wickedness. They are witches, alchemists, heretics. There are those who have refused to accept the church and worship false gods--the cult of Leto, Ishballites, those who pray to Xingian demons. The witches who commune with the devil, the alchemists who twist and pervert nature to their will, destroying God's own handiwork with their pride and arrogance. If the plague comes here, it is them that we must blame! But we will try them here summarily now, give them all a chance to repent their sins before we dispatch them to hell!"

The Inquisitor had worked himself up into something approaching his usual state of frenzy now, and the strength and conviction in his voice had increased enough to make Ed feel his blood stir. Without a doubt, the man had a gift. Every word he said was a lie, and he knew it, and yet he made it sound true. His voice echoed in the square so that when he said the word "hell" it bounced and rang off every surface, reverberating as the people held their breath as one.

"Do any of you renounce your sin and accept the Lord God into your heart before your soul is dispatched to hell?" The Inquisitor's question, shouted to the heavens, hung in the air as everyone waited.

"I do!" "Me, I repent!" "I'm innocent!" Dozens in the crowd of condemned shouted and scrambled, getting tangled in their bonds and stepping on their neighbors to come to the front of the crowd in an attempt to save their lives. It was fairly clear to Ed that the Inquisitor had not promised a commutation of sentence, only its implied ultimate result, but he knew that some would feel the compulsion to try to save their skins despite the odds. He could not claim that he would not, in the same circumstance. Although he had been on the dock in Dublith, the Inquisitor had not gotten the chance to make him his offer. Would he have tried to take it, to stall for time? He might have.

In any case, the Inquisitor seemed only vaguely interested in saving the souls that presented themselves for redemption in their last moments on earth. He stepped forward and, sprinkling some holy water held by an acolyte at his side, he spread some of the redemptive moisture upon them while muttering "God save your soul, God save your soul." Then he turned and stepped away, leaving a heap of sobbing penitents in his wake.

He raised his arm and pointed at Kimbley.

"Here we have one of the leaders of the outlaws that have been plaguing our land with their privations, their violence and cruelty, their blasphemies and lies. This is the infamous Crimson Alchemist!" That was the cue for the soldier holding the rope around his neck to pull him violently, then push him forward towards the Inquisitor.

"Crimson Alchemist," said the Inquisitor. "Get on your knees and repent for your murderous sins, and your criminal use of alchemy, before God and the people of Amestris, admit your wrongs and ask for forgiveness, or your soul will be remanded to hell for all eternity."

Kimbley refused to fall upon his knees even as the guard pushed him further forward. Instead he widened his stance and looked defiantly at the Inquisitor.

"No," he said. The smirk was still there, taunting the Inquisitor. Edward could see his face and lips grow pale with anger.

The Inquisitor suddenly turned toward another guard. "Give me your sword!" he commanded. The guard handed it over. The Inquisitor took a shaky step toward Kimbley, the sword held out before him. He came close enough to bring the tip of the blade to Kimbley's neck.

"So-called Crimson Alchemist," said the Inquisitor. "One of the most wanted men in the realm. Ask forgiveness and heaven may accept your soul. If you refuse, you die now and go to hell." His voice still trembled a bit, but this time Ed thought it might be out of pleasure; he had the Crimson Alchemist in his hands.

Kimbley finally betrayed some nerves. Ed could see his eyes darting back and forth, waiting for the outlaws to come barreling into the square. No one came. The crowd held its collective breath.

"Your partners in crime won't save you now," said the Inquisitor. "It seems you are not well loved even amongst the depraved outlaws. One of them sold you to me for ten pieces of silver, so cheap a price. Where is your great leader now, hmm?" He pushed the tip of the sword into Kimbley's neck so that the prisoner was obliged to tip his head back. Kimbley winced as the tip bit into his flesh. "Do you ask forgiveness for your sins?"

"No!" said Kimbley. He struggled, Ed could see his shoulders move frantically as he worked to free his hands and effect a transmutation. The Inquisitor took a shaky step forward, but it was enough. The sword pierced Kimbley's neck, and he stood for a moment, looking shocked, as blood began to spurt from the wound. The Inquisitor extracted the sword with a grunt and flung it aside, it clattered across the stone of the square, splashing blood, and Kimbley hit the ground with a thud.

"Prepare yourselves, people of Amestris, for you are about to see a sight that will show you what hell is like. For those of you with clean souls, it will cut you, for those of you with wicked souls whom the Inquisition has not yet caught, it should strike fear into you, for this will be your fate, if not in this world then in the next. It will be hard to look upon but try not to look away, for it shall cleanse you." He raised his good arm and the soldiers came to attention, holding their swords before them, tips to the ground.

"May these souls find their rightful place among the damned, and cleanse the soul of Amestris, in the name of the Lord and of the blessed King Bradley, bring strength to our realm and its people, free us from sin. Amen."

The crowd mumbled an assenting amen, and then the soldiers began their slaughter.

Ed could not help closing his eyes at first, but then he forced himself to keep them trained on Dante and Hohenheim. The moment the Inquisitor gave his order, pandemonium broke out in the square. The prisoners resisted and struggled, and caused a great outcry, among themselves and among those in the crowd who could not bear the sights and sounds of mass murder. Protestations rose up among the crowd, while Dante and Hohenheim dashed to the other end of the square. They pulled away the huge red carpet, even as it was trampled by soldiers and some members of the crowd who broke through the soldiers ringing the periphery, and Ed saw revealed a huge array. It was fifty feet in diameter, its power without doubt tremendous. Without thinking further, he pushed himself into the square and hobbled toward them, slipping on the cobblestones as he rushed toward the array. He stood on its edge and smudged one side with his foot; it had been drawn in charcoal. One of the soldiers who had obviously been sent to protect it smacked him in the head before he had time to look up. Ed went down and looked up to see Hohenheim looming above him.

The man crouched. "You're not dead," he said, sounding only vaguely troubled. "I never expected to see you again."

Ed pushed himself onto his knee, then grabbed his crutch and struggled to his feet. "Where's my brother's soul? Give it to me now."

Hohemheim tilted his head. He looked briefly at the pandemonium surrounding them. Ed could hear people shouting "Let us leave." It would take a while for the soldiers to kill all of the prisoners, and a riot was breaking loose as the soldiers ringing the square were preventing people from leaving the area. Why were they ordered to keep bystanders in the square? Ed's stomach nearly turned inside out when he realized that they were also to be part of the transmutation.

"I don't have time for this." Hohenheim said. "The window for our transmutation is coming any moment, and you've spoilt our array, you stupid boy." He pushed Ed aside and took out his charcoal, fixing the edge of the array. Ed threw himself on him and pushed him back as hard as he could, causing Hohenheim to land on his ass. Suddenly hands were clawing at Ed's back, and Dante was trying to pull him away.

"YOU! What are you doing here?" She pulled at him frantically. "Husband, the souls are slipping away...we must activate the array now!" She pulled even more desperately at Ed, managing to get him off Hohenheim and tearing his cloak in the process. "Things are getting out of control, hurry!"

"What are you doing?" Ed panted, pushing himself up again. He threw himself at the edge of the array and obscured its edge again.

"Damn you boy!" shrieked Dante. "Get out of our way!"

"You're trying to make a philosopher's stone!" he said, rubbing frantically at the edge of the array. "I won't let you!"

Hohenheim pushed him away and Dante kicked at his shoulder. "Get away from here!" Hohenheim said.

"No, I can't let you. You'll kill everyone here, thousands of people!"

"That's the idea, brat," said Dante, her breath coming fast as she scrambled to fix the array once again.

"I can't let you!"

"What are you talking about, you can't let us? You can barely stand up on your own." And to illustrate her point, Dante shoved him over yet again.

"STOP!" he screamed. "Stop, stop...look, I have one, I have a stone, I'll give it to you and you won't have to do this!" With shaking hand he pulled the stone from his pouch and held it up. Dante and Hohenheim stopped and stared at it. For a moment they were both motionless, Ed saw their eyes drink in the stone.

Dante reached for it but he closed his fist over it.

"Destroy the array and I'll give it to you."

Dante and Hohenheim looked at each other.

"No. We have thousands of lives we can transmute right here, this will make a powerful stone, we'll never get another chance like this again!" Dante said. Hohenheim nodded grimly.

Ed growled in frustration. The pandemonium was increasing, and Dante and Hohenheim were once again finishing their array. Ed pulled a piece of charcoal out of his pouch and crawled a bit around the circle, making minute marks that would alter the array slightly, marks that he intended to make it nonfunctional. They took no notice of him, so deep was their frenzy, but soon they began kicking him away again.

"Where is my brother?" he demanded. "Give him back to me NOW!"

"Shut up, boy, we don't have time for you," Dante hissed. She stepped back and examined the circle once again, but only the edge that they had corrected.

Ed brought himself to his feet once more and went to stand in the middle of the circle.

"Your window is almost closed. Give me my brother or I destroy this circle." He crouched and held his piece of charcoal to the center of the array. "Give him to me. I don't care what you do here anymore, just return him to me."

"God, just KILL HIM!" Dante roared at Hohenheim.

Hohenheim stepped onto the circle and stood over Ed. He looked down at him and Ed looked up, and their eyes met. Ed held him in his gaze. There was something oddly familiar behind Hohenheim's eyes, something that chilled him but also surprised him, the man seemed to reach out and wrap his hand around his heart, because it suddenly stilled.

Hohenheim sighed, reached into his cloak, and held out the metal flask.

"Here it is boy, now run. Everyone in this entire square is about to die."

And with that, Ed snatched the flask, and ran, as much as he was able.

When the chaos was unleashed, Mustang pushed his way into the square, pulling on his gloves as he went. He pulled his hood off too, no longer caring about being in disguise. If this was a suicide mission, then so be it. He ran straight for the Inquisitor, who was now being led toward the western end of the square by two guards. He saw that a huge array had taken the place of the red carpet before the Inquisitor's palace. Mustang rushed them, staying only far back enough to be out of the reach of their swords.

"Stop," he said, his hands poised to unleash his alchemy. "Or I will immolate you where you stand."

The guards were caught by surprise. Their swords were drawn and they made fierce faces beneath their helmets, but they were shocked nonetheless. The Inquisitor made an impatient motion with his hand, and his face twisted in disgust.

"Get out of the way," he commanded.

"I'm not letting you go back into your palace to hide while this slaughter is going on!" Mustang snarled. "I'm ending you right now."

"My alchemists are making me a weapon," said the Inquisitor. "One that will heal my wound, and hold the power to destroy nations. If I die they will resurrect me. They've already told me that they can."

"They won't!" Mustang said. "You're a fool to believe them. They're working only for themselves, they are using you. Just as you have abused your power in this realm for your own enrichment."

The Inquisitor huffed with impatience, slumping a bit, and clutched his injured shoulder with his opposite hand. "Get away, we'll all be engulfed by the transmutation if we don't leave the square immediately."

He tried to press on but Mustang stood his ground, his hands held out before him, in position to activate the arrays on his gloves.

"Destroy him!" the Inquisitor commanded the soldier on his right. The soldier lunged forward and Mustang drew upon the elements he had already been collecting around him, his snapping fingers immediately creating a spurt of fire that he aimed at the man. The fire engulfed him and the man fell to the ground, his clothes alight. He rolled frantically and pulled at his metal helmet, desperate to remove it. Mustang looked upon him feeling some remorse, he was just a lackey after all, and it was the Inquisitor he wished to turn to ash. He drew off the fire as quickly as he could, but the man was already down and would probably be dead soon in any case. Mustang forced himself to look away.

The other guard was trembling, he could see, but the Inquisitor was leaning upon him, and for the first time, Mustang saw fear cross his already ashen face. The man was dying, and still a coward. He felt nothing but contempt for him.

The crowd swirled around them. At this point, no one was paying much mind to the Inquisitor. The situation, Mustang could see, had devolved into panic and madness. He had the Inquisitor mere feet away from him, but the Inquisitor was now gazing over his shoulder, behind him. Mustang desperately wanted to see what he was looking at, but feared to take his eyes off his quarry for a second. He had to hold him here until his men could get here and wrest the man from his guard, so he could take him into custody and execute him before all, and stop this madness.

"We're running out of time!" the Inquisitor said, now clearly desperate. "We'll be swept up in the alchemists' transmutation if we don't get away from here!"

"You stay right there," said Mustang, holding his arm as steady as he could. He was not even tempted to turn and run. He'd come too far. Beads of sweat were sliding down his own cheeks as the sun beat down, and he could see that the Inquisitor was faring yet worse, with his wound and the expense of energy at his performance. Mustang stood still, trying to screen out the screams and the shouts and the people running around them. The soldiers at the edges of the square had now moved towards all the outlets and lanes, he could see from the corners of his eyes, attempting to keep the populace from escaping. They had caught on that something aside from the executions was happening.

Finally, he felt bodies arrive at his side. Havoc, Breda, Armstrong, Hawkeye, Falman. He could breathe again, and let Havoc and Breda hold their swords toward the Inquisitor. The man shouted weakly for more soldiers but he had lost control of the situation. Mustang came close now, and spoke to the quivering soldier at the Inquisitor's side.

"Leave him to us," he said.

The soldier glared at him for a moment, then took off into the crowd.

Mustang nodded to Armstrong, who grabbed the Inquisitor with one sweep of his arm, and Mustang turned to see what was going on. He was shocked to see Dante and who he assumed to be her husband, scrambling over the gigantic array.

Dante and her husband were paying little notice, so desperate were they to mend what was obviously a flawed array, its outer edges destroyed. Dante flew at him as he drew near, dragging the Inquisitor behind him.

"What are you doing?'

Hohenheim stood up from his crouch. "You need to move, we are going to activate this array within moments, we can waste no more time."

"If this is what I think it is, you cannot do it," said Mustang.

"WHY is everyone so meddlesome?" screeched Dante, throwing down her charcoal. "Just remove yourself or die, it's too late now."

"What about him?" Mustang gestured at the Inquisitor behind him, being held up by Armstrong.

Dante looked at Mustang. "When we have our stone we will heal his wound."

"And what about Alphonse Elric...his brother claims you have stolen his soul and have housed it in a receptacle. If that is so, then give it to me."

"I've already given it to him," said Hohenheim. "And he ran off. I suggest you do the same."

"What are you going to do?" Mustang's recognized the fear in his own voice as he asked. He had never seen an array this large, complex or powerful, before.

"We are going to transmute every soul within a mile into a philosopher's stone," said Dante. "If you stand inside the array with us you can be safe and watch...as a fellow alchemist I offer you this courtesy. You too, Inquisitor," she said.

"Do you even know what you are doing?" Mustang said. "You could destroy everything for miles with an array that powerful."

"We shall see," said Dante. "We're curious to see what will happen. Aren't you?" She studied Mustang's face for a moment. "No, not you, you're only a soldier with a little fire, you are not a true scientist. Stay and watch if you will, or prepare to die."

Dante flung herself on her knees, and Hohenheim along with her, and they pressed their hands to their array. Mustang drew back, nearly falling into the Inquisitor, who flinched and squirmed.

"We have to get out of here!" he screamed, truly panicked now.

Mustang turned to him. "Shut up! This is all your doing, ten thousand people could die in a minute because of your idiocy." He turned him around and pushed him forward. To his great relief he saw that the alchemists' array was spitting out sparks but not functioning, despite their efforts. "But they won't because their array is flawed. You're safe from them, but not from me." He pushed the Inquisitor back toward the center of the square, his men behind him.

The soldiers and the people were all in a positive melee at this point, panic and screams reverberated off the buildings, but the soldiers, Mustang could see, were losing heart and purpose. The people had turned on them, were running from the square or else taking them on with their own weapons, and even several of them lay on the ground. Some of the prisoners had managed to escape, and the crowds were desperately funneling away from the square.

Mustang saw no need to keep them there, but he would have enough witnesses to his deed. With his men around him, he dragged the Inquisitor to the pedestal in the center of the square, upon which was mounted a likeness of King Bradley upon a horse.

"People of Amestris!" he bellowed, attempting with little effect to make his voice heard above the clamor. "The Inquisitor has terrorized our land with his lies and tyranny for too long, has tortured and murdered in the name of his god, and has brought no comfort or ease to our lives, only terror and despair. I, Roy Mustang, and the Guild of Alchemists and the brotherhood of Outlaws, declare the Inquisitor a traitor to the realm and he will be executed with haste this very day."

With that, he drew his sword. The crowd began to hush around him, and he realized that he had the eyes and ears of hundreds around the square, even if those in the periphery still ran.

"I shall not use alchemy to slay him, because alchemy is not to be used for death, but to enhance life. People of Amestris, do not fear alchemy, but embrace it as a science that can be a great boon to humanity, and not, as the Inquisitor claims, a perversion of nature or a weapon of destruction. I do not wish to take a life, but as vengeance against all the lives he has stolen, and to protect our people from further predation, I shall strike off his head."

He pushed the Inquisitor to his knees, then brought his sword up, and he saw that people had made a ring about him and the Inquisitor, the two of them alone in the center of it. He stepped back, holding his sword, although it was a light one, in both hands to steady the grip. He rarely fought with his sword and it was not his preferred method, but he did not want to kill with alchemy before the eyes of all these people.

"Do you have any last words before I dispatch you?" he asked.

"To hell?" added the Inquisitor, adding the phrase he always used before his own murders.

"There is no hell," said Mustang. "Only the one you created here in Amestris with your crimes."

The Inquisitor smiled. "I tried to help the people, I did what I thought was right."

"You shall not be made a martyr here today," said Mustang. "Confess your sins. Tell them that you don't believe in God, or salvation, tell them as you told me, that the Inquisition was a lie to keep the people in fear and in submission. Tell them."

The Inquisitor looked at him and blinked. "Why should I tell them? You just did." He closed his eyes.

Mustang drew back the sword, and then he swung, with all his might.

Ed heard the shocked murmur ripple through the crowd as he reached the end of the square, stopping at the side of the cathedral, he leant against it to catch his breath and watched. What had happened, he had no idea, but he wanted to get as far away from Dante and Hohenheim as he could. Their array was fucked, and it wouldn't do what they wanted it to, but that didn't mean that it wouldn't do anything at all, he couldn't be certain. If they were foolish enough to try it, he didn't want to be anywhere near it.

He made his way to a side door of the cathedral and slipped in. He heard the murmur of voices and knew that others were already inside. As he made his way into the main sanctuary, he saw that hundreds of people had slipped inside to pray, in terror of what had been happening in the square. As he made his way up the aisle toward the altar, he saw that some of those praying were the Inquisitor's soldiers, kneeling in their white tunics, and asking God for his forgiveness. Some of them were even stained in blood. Other people milled around or were on their knees in the pews, their heads bowed in prayer looking up at the altar with that expression of fear and awe that never ceased to interest Ed. He had never felt anything in a church, then again, he had never been in one as grand as the Sacred Heart of Amestris. The ceiling was a hundred feet high, and intricate stained glass windows allowed the light from the waning sun to filter in as jewel toned shafts of light. The altar was laden with intricate workings of gold and marble, and along the sides of the cathedral were small arced chapels dedicated to various saints, their marble likenesses staring out at him with their blind eyes, hands supplicant. Many of them had strands of beads draped over their cold hard fingers, and votaries glistened in the dark before each one, the numbers directly related to the saint's popularity.

He briefly wondered if old Saint Amery had a chapel here, and was surprised to find in himself a surge of affection for the patron saint of the old monastery. His thoughts turned for a moment to Brother Matthew and made him sad. What was it about churches? They point out how small people are, Ed thought, as he held the flask to his chest.

The flask was cold in his hand. He sat down on the end of a bench and examined it, turned it over carefully in his hands. The blood seal on the outside was intact, to his tremendous relief. Without thinking he held it to his pounding heart, and then pressed the cool metal to his cheek.

"I have you Al," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Even as he held the container, he felt his fears for Al, forever with him since the day he had been taken from him, rising to the surface. How was his soul faring, confined in the dark and quiet of the sealed flask? Did he have consciousness in there, was he in terror? These thoughts had tormented Ed for weeks, and now that he held the flask in his hand, they returned and needled him viciously. He was a terrible brother for letting this happen, for bringing Al to those people, for not listening to Al when he warned him that they were not to be trusted. He had failed his brother horribly, again and again. He had to make this right...but what was right? Find yet another suit of armor and attempt to bond Al's soul again? How many times could this be done before the soul broke free, or degraded, or...what if it got away, turned into a ghost, evaporated? He had no idea. He had no one to turn to--the Guild was not to be trusted, and he certainly could not go back to Dante and Hohenheim, even though they knew what they were about far more than any other alchemists he had ever met in this world.

He felt desperately indecisive, something he was not familiar with. He had to make a plan and go with it, follow it through no matter what. And he would have to do it alone.

He touched the stone in his pouch, felt its cool smoothness against his fingertips. If it did what he hoped it would, he could summon a Gate, take Al through it, restore Al's body, and get them both home, all without having to give something to the Gate. It seemed almost a fairy tale, but it had to be real, if Dante and Hohenheim were willing to go to those lengths to try to create one for themselves.

Ed looked at the altar for a while, saw a priest in a red robe come in and begin to pray, saw the others rise and begin to pray in communion with him. He had never felt god in his heart, and he didn't feel it now. He felt alone and scared, weak and small. It would be nice to feel what the monks had told him Grace felt like, sheltering arms, healing hands, sweet embraces from the Mother, the holiness touching your heart and making you feel at peace. Knowing that when you died, you went to a better place, and were not merely subsumed as energy into the Gate, forgotten by all. It would be nice.

He pushed himself up, weary and not a little anxious, and made his way to the back of the church. He would find a quiet place and summon the Gate, and offer it the stone, and everything he had, for Al, and whatever happened after that...well, so be it.

He looked up at the ceiling, anticipating the feeling of at least some elevation, but when he focused his gaze upon it, his heart stopped. The mosaic on the ceiling of the Sacred Heart was a perfect array, and a perfect twin to the one Dante and Hohenheim had been drawing in the square. They had been planning on attaching this array to the one in the square, creating a transmutation of enormous power. He shuddered to think what they could do, this entire city could fall into the earth. He had stopped them for now, but they had gone through too much trouble to stop now, he had to find them and stop them himself.

When he came back out into the square, the crowd had begun to move apart, and he could see from the top of the cathedral's steps a body in a red robe lying on the stones in the center of the square, and he could see Roy Mustang holding a bloody sword, and he could see a crowd of people surging forth to the King's palace, hell bent on something. Ed made his way over, tucking the flask into his pouch. Mustang was surrounded by dozens of the outlaws now, but as Ed drew close and pushed his way into the group, he could see the rest of the scene. The puddle of black blood, the head of the Inquisitor. Mustang bent down and grabbed it by the hair. He held it up, but the look on his face was not of triumph but of weariness, relief. It struck Ed how one could be so tired at the end of a journey. Mustang had what he wanted now, but he was not exultant. He even seemed a bit sad, his eyes were uncharacteristically bright and shiny.

"It is done!" he cried. "And let the King no longer impose upon us a tyrant such as this man was!"

The crowd was silent for a moment....and then a great cheer went up. People surged forward to grab at Mustang, to touch him, to call him savior, but he protested.

"I'm just a man," he said. "I have no special agency, and no special divinity, nor do I have the ear of god, or anything else the Inquisitor claimed. Let no one tell you otherwise, either. We are a free people, not slaves to the church or to the king! The King serves us, keeps our peace and prosperity, and keeps us strong. The Inquisitor made us weak and afraid. Let us be free of that madness!"

The crowd cheered and surged again, and there was no telling them that Roy Mustang was not a savior or a hero. He passed the Inquisitor's head to one of his men, and let the people touch his hands.

Suddenly there was a rumble and the ground beneath them began to move and shake. Ed knew it for a transmutation immediately, and turned to the end of the square where he saw Dante and Hohenheim at work over their array. They had it going again. Ed tore towards them, but the force of the transmutation kept him fixed in place. Dante and Hohenheim had altered their transmutation presumably to pull souls into a stone, but instead they had caused the ground beneath their feet to crumble. People ran as the square began to sink, and a crack began to run from the array up the center of the square. The transmutation was a straight line, a hungry fault, like a ravenous snake it sped from the array to the Sacred Heart of Amestris and struck it like lightning. The cathedral was bathed in alchemic light, and the crowd screamed. This was nothing like the screams from inside the Cathedral, while the transmutation crackled around it, the walls shuddered but didn't shift. Ed saw Dante and Hohenheim run towards it, and Hohenheim fell to his knees before it was reached. Dante bent down to pull him up, but he followed, crawling up the steps. Ed supposed he has used too much of his own energy on the transmutation, but Dante was hell bent on getting inside

The square was still littered with the bodies of those who had begun to fall to the Inquisitor, and the crack in the square, like a fault left behind after an earthquake, swallowed some of them up. The crack spread outwards toward the crowd and Ed sprang to action, grabbing the charcoal in his pouch he crouched down and drew an array to stop it in its path, then scrambled to stop another branch of the array from spreading as well. He was familiar enough with that array—the one Caelius Magnus had detailed in his book—to create a counter. He nearly fell into the crack himself before it stopped at his feet.

Afterwards, the smell of ozone was in the air, and the square and the Cathedral were oddly silent. Ed knew that everyone inside the Sacred Heart was dead, and dozens more near it besides, the bodies littered about, their souls stolen from them. Dante came out of the cathedral with something in her hand, and she knelt down to her husband on the steps. No one else was aware of who had performed the transmutation, or that the circle had been joined to one inside the cathedral.

Ed felt a sense of failure for not stopping them sooner. He had saved the rest of the living in the square, but had not been fast enough to stop the transmutation inside the Sacred Heart. His own felt heavy, despite the people slapping him on the back for his quick work. Ed watched the scene from the edges of the crowd and felt his heart swell for Mustang. He stayed and let Havoc, Breda, and Armstrong slap his back, shared a knowing look with Hawkeye, whose eagle sharp eyes were suspiciously red. He stayed in the square as the afternoon began to turn into evening, and the crowd marched off with the Inquisitor's head. The head was placed on a pike at the bridge over the river, to make the point that this death was no martyrdom. When the King's soldiers came, they dared not face down the crowd that had gathered, and spirited the body away, without its head.

Ed smiled when Mustang made his way toward him through the crowd. Mustang clamped a hand down on his shoulder, and Ed looked up and met his eyes, and smiled with just his lips, and almost couldn't stop himself in time as he blinked at the tears gathered in his own eyes.

"So, the outlaws have won," said Ed, tossing his head back, trying to be casual even as tears stung his eyes. "It's over."

Mustang looked around the darkened square, the evening summer breeze now coming off the river blowing his hair across his own eyes, so that he had to flick his fringe away. "Yes. I'll have to find a new purpose in life."

"What will it be?" asked Ed. "You could always run for King, I hear Bradley is less than popular these days."

Mustang laughed softly. "Run for king? What does that mean?" He pushed Ed's shoulder gently.

"I have it," said Ed. "I have Al's soul back."

Mustang nodded, his expression softening more still, as if he dared not ask any more of the unhinged boy. Irritated, Ed pulled the flask from his pouch and showed it to Mustang. His eyes widened a bit and he took the flask reverently.

"So...this is true, a soul can be contained in something like this?" Mustang asked.

"Why not?" Ed demanded. "If it can be bound to a suit of armor, why not a lead flask?"

"I suppose." Mustang held it a bit longer before giving it back to Ed. "So what will you do now? Can you use my help? It seems there is an unemployed group of outlaws at large."

Ed took a breath and nodded. "We need to find a quiet place."

"You've got whatever you need," said Mustang, and he was pulled away by the revelers that were gathering in the square to celebrate into the night. "You come find me when you're ready." He waved at Ed and was swallowed by the crowd.

He found his quiet place, in the basement of the Inquisitor's palace, which has been thrown open to the people of Amestris. They were looting the palace as Ed explored the cellars. They were replete with casks and bottles of fine Cretan and Xingian wines, and with other stored foods, and even what appeared to be a hospital shelter in case of plague. The Inquisitor would have hidden down here before helping the people, Ed knew. Mustang had always been right about him.

The people stormed the palace, and the outlaws had claimed it for their new headquarters, reveling in it long after midnight, raiding the wine cellar while Ed painstakingly drew out his array in the largest room in the cellar. They would be going through the Gate, him, and Alphonse, and the philosopher's stone taken from Petra the alchemist's widow, and they would see.

He tried to be patient as he drew the array on the stone floor of the cellar, although his heart alternately pounded and threatened to cease beating all together. He had to make it perfect. His mind's eye painstakingly recreated the array he had seen in the pages of his father's old alchemy notebooks, the way to summon the gate. It was the most beautiful array, and his eyes lit up in spite of himself as he drew it, it hummed with power even before he activated it. It was so powerful and beautiful that he dared not complete it until he was ready, until everything was in place. Upstairs, his friends guarded the door to the cellar so that he could be alone. Alone except for Mustang, the newly coronated Outlaw Hero of Amestris. Mustang, the Liberator. He already had names and tales. His men would be remembered, Ed thought, as Mustang patiently watched him, offering his help here and there.

When he was done, Ed let Mustang help him to his feet. "Thank you," he said.

Mustang smiled and crossed his arms, looked over the array. "That is one terrifying array, boy. I would never touch such a thing myself. You're a better and a braver alchemist than I could ever be."

"You're a leader," said Ed. "A good one."

Mustang smiled. "So, you're certain this is what you want? It's not too late. There are a dozen sets of armor in the palace, we could pick out a nice one."

Ed gave a half-smile, but he was going all the way. "No. It's time." He took the philosopher's stone from his pouch and wrapped his hand around it. He took out the flask that housed his brother's soul and put it in the center of the array. He took off his wooden leg and pushed it away from the array, then got down on his knee and brought himself to the center of the circles. He, and Al, and the stone, were all there. He looked up at Mustang.

Mustang raised a hand and waved. "If I have to attach your soul to anything, do you have any requests?"

Ed smirked. "Save it Mustang. You'll need your corny jokes for all the public speaking you'll be doing as the new king."

Mustang uncrossed his arms. "I'll be no King!"

"I'll be sure to read my history books this time around," Ed said. He blinked back tears that were surely anticipation, not fear, or sadness to be leaving this horrible place, certainly, still they almost blurred his vision as he began to activate the array. Blue light, then white, rose from it and surrounded him, warm and crackling like captive lightning. When he last saw Mustang, he was still standing there in the cellar, watching, watching, his eyes lit up, and then the Gate interposesd itself between him and the world and they were gone.

The Gate was kinder this time around, because of his offering, and perhaps, because of his humility. He felt it grab but it took only the stone, drinking it in with its thousand eyes and mouths, greedy for it, but it felt how he knew he had so little to give, and how he wanted so much. How he had suffered in the world, how heaven would have rewarded him because he was only weak, and he hoped that the Gate would give his brother back to him, or he would go in his place. And when he found his way out of the darkness, they were there, in the basement of the Inquisitor's palace, still, and yet it was black and still, the only light that of the waning transmutation. His brother was close to him, he could hear him breathing in the darkened space, and they crawled from the darkness inside the Inquisitor's palace groping and blind because it was like the sun had gone out in the sky. Ed was surprised, and his brother just whimpered with disorientation as Ed held him in two flesh arms as they crawled in the dark and said, "At least I got your body back, at least, at least..."

But it was as if the sun had been snuffed out, because when they dragged themselves up the stairs, everyone was gone, everyone, not even the whisper of sound or a ghost was left, and Ed pulled himself up and held himself against the wall and leaned on his brother's weak body as they made their way to the door of the palace which looked out upon a square that was dead and dark as if on another planet with no sun. And Ed's heart sank, and his brother said hoarsely, "What have we done now? What is this place?"

But looking around the square Ed saw the Sacred Heart, and he saw the rest of Central much as it was in the days when he had been there and when Roy Mustang had been the Hero of Amestris, and he led his brother across the dusty, dead square, where that crack from the array Dante and Hohenheim had activated still was, and looked down and saw the bones of people long dead, but he didn't shudder. His brother grew stronger beside him as they went into the cathedral, and took the stairs very slowly, one by one because neither of them was strong, up to the tower, and there was light and they went up and out into the world, and Ed knew that they would be home.

END


End file.
